


Don't Cry Your Eyes Out

by larkspurs



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Multi, Non-Binary Boss (Saints Row), Original Character(s), Platonic Relationships, Romantic Friendship, Slight Canon Divergence, me self indulging in characters id like to see more sides of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkspurs/pseuds/larkspurs
Summary: The Boss gets hurt, real bad. The lieutenants have to deal with the fact that the Boss, maybe, isn't as invincible as they'd like everyone to believe. Sure, it's not fatal, but it's still no icing on the cake."It was like spending your entire life protected by these powerful stone walls, and then watching someone take a sledgehammer to it. It was too hard to comprehend, to remember they could be damaged. Worse, to remember that sometimes they needed to be saved."A glimpse into the Saints being people before they're gangsters, the lieutenants' relationships with the boss, and the mess of being the one that needs to be saved. Takes place right after the mission "Good D" in the Ronin Arc. Romantic relationships are tagged but they aren't the main focus.





	1. Chapter 1

His shirt was ruined.

Johnny was pacing around in his under tank and he was kicking chairs and knocking tables.

"It's fucked up-- this shit is fucked up," he said, not looking at anyone. His glasses slipped down his nose. He smashed them back up, winced as he bludgeoned his own eye, and still he paced.

Pierce sat in a chair, one foot propped on the edge of a magazine table, tapping a nervous beat with his fingers. "Gat, I _know_."

Johnny's shirt was in the chair next to him. It was still damp, and soaking into the seat cushion. That shit was ruined.

"Did you call Shaundi?"

"I texted her."

"Did she reply?"

"No."

Johnny stopped pacing and flung out one hand. "Then fucking _call_ her!"

Pierce gave a deep huff and rolled his eyes, begrudgingly pulled his phone back out, and rung Shaundi. Glaring at Gat, he held it up on speaker phone.

He watched it ring.

No answer.

"What the shit!" There was a bite in his voice, like he had no idea where he was directing his anger, but he was close to seeing red.

"Man, you know how she is-- she's probably high out of her mind right now; it's not like she's ignoring us." He shoved his phone back in his pocket. "She'll call me when she's back on Earth."

Johnny kicked another table. "I can't fucking-- I need a smoke. You got any?"

"Nah, I didn't think to grab any fucking cigs on my way here. I was a little preoccupied!"

Johnny's face twisted. "Cut it the fuck out."

"You cut it the fuck out first. Quit knocking shit around like a goddamn toddler."

Johnny threw himself in a seat across from Pierce. He sunk low in his chair, a grimace stuck on his face. "I didn't wanna be back here so fucking soon."

"Christ, Gat, none of us are sitting around pissing our pants to be in a hospital again."

"It's not the same for you."

A smarmy remark died on his lips as he caught Gat's glance. His eyes were hard, but there was something more behind them. Something pained, that Pierce knew better than to prod at.

He would call it vulnerability, if he weren't looking at Johnny Motherfucking Gat. 

"Gat, man--" He paused, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I know. But I can still _get_ it."

"No, you can't," Johnny insisted. He fell forward, elbows on his knees. "Not this time. Anyone else? Sure, fine, we're two peas in a fucking pod, but not with them. Not this soon."

Something turned over in Pierce's stomach. He bit his tongue. Spilling his gross-ass cotton candy feelings all over the floor wasn't worth it just to win an argument.

"They mean something to me, too, asshole." He grumbled it. It slipped out, past his filters. He must be more exhausted than he realized.

Johnny was standing again, breathing tension and pent-up anger he couldn't put into words. "Obviously, motherfucker-- but you didn't lose them for five fucking years, did you? You spent five years, huh, thinking your best friend was a goddamn corpse at the bottom of the lake because the people you trusted most betrayed you, them, both of you--" He stopped, twitched, and collapsed back into his seat. His chest was bouncing up and down with short, heavy breaths, like he was starting to suffocate. "They haven't even been back for a year, and it's only a few weeks since Eesh-- and now the same fucking gang just put their stupid ass in the ICU."

Pierce stared at the ugly green carpet under his feet. He tapped his fingers on the armrest. "Maybe we shouldn't have gone for the Ronin first, huh?"

Johnny shot him a look. "This isn't our fault."

"Sure."

They sat in a tense silence. The waiting room was silent. The clock just kept fucking ticking.

"You know--" Johnny started, then looked away.

Pierce waited a moment for him to continue. He didn't.

"Well?"

"What?"

He practically scoffed. "What do I know?"

Johnny sighed. "After the yacht shit, I went to the Lopez mansion-- they'd been living there pretty much all the time-- and they had, they had all these fucking cats."

Pierce laughed a bit. "How many?"

"Like, more than ten. Mostly kittens, too. Like they'd adopted all these knocked up strays and kept the kids. Fuckin' cat orphanage."

Pierce watched his face. Johnny wasn't looking at him. "What'd you do with 'em?"

"Eesh and I kept the youngest few; the rest went to a shelter. They asked the same thing, like as soon as we cleared the courthouse." He cleared his throat, and then mimicked the Boss's low, gravelly voice. "Johnny, what happened to my fucking cats? What'd you do with 'em, Johnny?"

They both laughed a bit.

"They got a new cat, just a few months ago," Pierce said. "Ugly as sin, too. This old lady, all scarred up and ragged. Told me they found her in a street gutter. They're always kissin' on her and shit, but she scratches me if I even look at her too long. Damn thing smacks my face when I'm sleeping."

Johnny snorted, then his eyebrows knit together. He looked at Pierce over the rim of his glasses. "Their cat smacks you awake?"

His eyes flashed wider, just a bit, enough to give away that he'd said more than he meant to. He winced, and put a hand up. "Uh-- yeah."

"Ah, hell," Johnny mumbled. "I didn't know you were sleeping with them. I almost feel bad now."

"Yeah. But it's still not the same, huh?"

"Fuck no, it's not."

Another tense pause.

"Shaundi knows, doesn't she?"

"Shaundi knows more about the Boss's sex life than the Boss does. Pretty sure they told her the exact dimensions of my cock."

He actually laughed at that.

“So-- Why’d you bring up the cats?”

“Huh, well, I just keep thinking about them. All those fuckin’ cats, mewlin’ around waiting for them to come home. You think cats get scared?”

“Hope not. Otherwise their cats would be shitting the floor every time they step out.”

Johnny snorted.

The entryway doors flung open, like someone kicked them, and both of them leapt up from their seats. Shaundi stood there for a moment, looking around, and then spotted the two of them and released her breath. “Gat, Pierce!” She ran over to them, swaying and tilting on her feet, still a little bleary.

"Hey, girl," Johnny greeted her first, giving her a one-armed hug. "Bout time you fuckin' showed."

"I know, I know." Her voice was rough, tired. "I was _really_ high." She tugged at the bandana in her hair, tightening it, and let her eyes flit around the waiting room. "What happened?"

"Ronin. I brought Mr. Wong over to see the Boss in Purgatory and those fuckin’ pricks showed up. One on a motorbike caught ‘em across the face."

She blinked at Pierce. "With a sword?"

"If it was a gun, this'd be a very fucking different meeting."

Johnny pointed at him. "I don't wanna fucking hear that shit."

Shaundi sat next to Johnny and looked between them. "How much longer?"

"Doctors estimated five hours. It's been one."

She grimaced. "Shit."

"Shit doesn't begin to cover it."

"Could be worse," Pierce sighed. "Far as I can figure, the only real danger is their eye. It’s pretty hard to bleed out from your face, even if the artery gets cut."

"What happened to their eye?"

"Slashed open," Johnny said. "Probably too bad to save."

They all fell quiet.

Pierce thought back to seeing them on the ground, heaving and gasping for breath, their face sliced open, collapsed on their side, their right eye frantically zipping around and their hands pressing to their cheeks, like they were trying to mold themself back together. The gore was almost too much-- more than that, seeing the Boss so afraid was almost too much.

It was like spending your entire life protected by these powerful stone walls, and then watching someone take a sledgehammer to it. It was too hard to comprehend, to remember they could be damaged. Worse, to remember that sometimes they needed to be saved.

Johnny's shirt sat next to him, still staining the hospital chair with all the blood it had absorbed from the Boss's face.

He thought, maybe, that he'd never seen Johnny move that fast before; but, Johnny had been kneeling in the dirt pressing his shirt to the cut before anyone else had time to process what happened. Maybe his reflexes were just faster when the Boss was involved. Maybe he moved faster when he was desperate not to lose someone again.

Johnny was still slumped low in his chair, staring at nothing. His face was set, almost neutral, and he wondered if Johnny felt fear just the same as the rest of them did. Sometimes it seemed like there was a divide between who they were and how they felt. A divide that made it so they couldn’t be lieutenants _and_ human beings at the same time; they had to choose to be one or the other. It made moments like this scarier, harder, as they struggled between being strong and being people. First it was Aisha’s death, and then Carlos’s torture, and now the Boss--

Sometimes the Boss was warped into a kind of mythological figure, untouchable and stalwart, _the_ Saint of Saints, and sometimes they were cradled in Johnny's arms with his shirt pressed against their bleeding eye socket, crying in the back of the car, mumbling fearfully. “ _Kiù-miā_ ,” they’d gasped, struggling to keep their breath or to even process where they were, “ _kiù-miā!_ ” None of them really knew what it meant, but it wasn’t that hard to guess.

None of them liked to think of the Boss as someone with vulnerabilities. Admitting they weren’t impervious went against everything they had built themself up to be, and that was scarier than any gunshot. The Boss’s mortality was interwoven with their own, with the mortality of the Saints as a concept. Without them, it was a struggle to imagine going further, to conceptualize what the Saints would be. The Boss _was_ the Saints. One couldn’t live without the other.

“So, there’s no chance they’ll bite it, right?” Shaundi suddenly broke the silence. She hadn’t been there. She wouldn’t know how bad or not-that-bad it really was. “You said it’s hard to bleed out from your face.”

Pierce nodded, slowly, but didn’t look at her. He felt detached. Exhausted. Even to raise his head was too much exertion. “They won’t bite it.”

“Be pretty fucked if they survived a boat bomb and a 5-year coma but not a knife wound.” Johnny just barely rolled his head to look at her.

A weak laugh passed through them.

Another few minutes passed.

“So, who’s on first coffee run?”

Pierce snorted. “Girl, it hasn’t even been two hours.”

“I know! I just hate sitting here all quiet.”

Johnny leaned forward and stuck his hands under his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Then go get some cards or a blunt, or fuckin’ somethin’.”

“Okay,” She huffed, sliding out of her chair and wandering off. “You guys are bitches!” she called back over her shoulder.

Johnny waved her off, still rubbing his eyes. Pierce looked at him.

“You know, it _is_ actually gonna be okay.”

Johnny opened his eyes, but didn’t lean back. “I know,” he said, but his voice was quiet. “It’s just pretty fucked up.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still in the waiting room, stuck there for what feels like another eternity.  
> "Hospital waiting rooms were limbo, and to survive in one they had to play a balancing game between okay and not okay. The three of them weren’t doing a great job."

Shaundi came back with a deck of cards and a bag of marshmallows. “Full 52, boys,” she said, plopping the deck on the low table. “Who’s ready to lose some cash?”

“What, we aren’t betting the marshmallows?” Johnny pulled his chair forward even as he teased her, taking off all the outdated, hospital-supplied fashion magazines. He grabbed the deck and started to shuffle.

Shaundi grinned, ripped open the bag and popped one in her mouth. “Depends,” she said as she chewed. “How much cash you got?”

Johnny pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and cocked his head to the side. “Like ten bucks.” He threw the fives on the table.

Pierce put down two twenties with a handful of coins. “That’s all I’ve got.”

Shaundi dug in her pockets and pulled out two dollars and a dime. “There’s me.”

“Good enough,” Johnny shrugged, dealing out the cards. “Winner walks away with 52 dollars and… 86 cents.”

Shaundi picked up her hand. “Not too bad.” She paused, tilted her head up, and then looked back down at her cards. “You know, it was Boss that actually taught me how to play poker.”

Johnny shot her a curious look. “Didn’t you play in jail?”

She grinned. “Yeah, but I bluffed my whole way through! I didn’t even know what was going on, man.”

Pierce laughed. “Figures! You and your dumb luck.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Whatever! My dumb luck is a skill! I cultivated it.” She looked down at the community cards, thinking, before she continued, “But, Boss wanted to teach me so we could play for real-- they’re pretty sweet sometimes.”

An odd, inexplicable discomfort settled down over the table. Shaundi felt it as soon as the words slipped off her tongue. There was nothing wrong or cruel in what she’d said, technically, but it left a distaste in all of them.

Each of them could remember a moment the Boss had been “pretty sweet” to them-- done something thoughtful, helped them learn how to do something, even just sat and listened to them talk without interrupting them. Even so, admitting that the Boss had a _sweet side_ felt dangerous, like handing out their bank account information to strangers on the street. It just wasn’t something you admitted-- once they were out from behind closed doors, the Boss was an attack dog. They were the power behind the punch, the threat that kept antagonists wary. Same as seeing them injured, admitting to whatever kindness might lurk under their skin was a hole in the safety net.

Shaundi cleared her throat. She felt the unease, and she hated it. She never liked tension; it was in her nature to dispel it by any means necessary before it turned into something gross that bogged her down. Let it linger too long, it’d be there for days. She shifted, pushing away the discomfort, and put on a smile. “Alright, who’s first?”

They played for almost an hour -- Johnny won the pot -- then they played blackjack for 20 minutes -- Johnny won again -- and then they stared at nothing eating Shaundi’s marshmallows for another 30.

“You know,” Johnny started, pulling a marshmallow in two, “when I was in the hospital none of you assholes waited this long for me.”

“You can’t prove that,” Shaundi said, sitting upside down in her chair and balancing a marshmallow on her chin.

“Then why didn’t I see you, huh?” He pelted her with a mallow, and she lost hers to the floor. She swore, grabbed it as fast as she could, and ate it.

“You ain’t as cute as the Boss, so we left.” Pierce was shuffling the cards, dealing them out, and then reshuffling them.

“Oh, you mean I ain’t givin’ you handies in the bathroom, so I don’t get any fuckin’ flowers?”

Shaundi squinted. “I don’t see any flowers.”

Johnny looked up. “Should we get them flowers?”

Shaundi turned her head, folded her hands on her stomach, and thought about it. “They… do like flowers.”

Johnny met her eyes. “They do.”

Pierce nodded. “They do.”

The three of them sat in silence for a moment.

“What… kind of flowers?” Shaundi whispered.

“Chrysanthemum.”

“No,” Pierce shook his head, “Peonies. Chrysanthemum are a close second.”

“Figures you would know that, huh?” Johnny briefly motioned a blow job with his hand and tongue. Pierce snatched a marshmallow from the bag and chucked it at Johnny’s face. Johnny caught it in his mouth and pretended he didn’t almost choke on it. Shaundi laughed at them.

Pierce stood, shook his head, and stuck out his hand. “Gimme the cash; I’ll go get them the damn flowers.”

Johnny carelessly slapped 50 dollars in his hand. “You’re too easy to fuck with, ya know.”

“Sure, prick.”

He walked out, rolling his shoulders and trying to shake loose the tension of sitting in a hospital chair for almost three hours. When he was gone, Shaundi drew solemn. She looked lost for a moment, just thinking, before rolling around to sit upright in her chair and looking to Johnny.

“Hey, Gat?”

He turned his glance to her, stuffing the rest of the cash in his pocket. “Yeah?”

“Is it fucked up that this-- this is really bothering me?” She frowned, pushing out her lower lip as if her face was tightening in frustration. “It feels like the first time that shit might not just… be okay.”

If she looked closer, she might have seen Johnny deflate just a bit. “It’s really not that big a deal,” he started, “but, yeah, I know what you mean. I mean, I’ve felt like shit for weeks, Shaundi, this definitely isn’t making it better-- but, the Boss is usually the one that keeps everything moving.”

She nodded. “They’re always so stable.” A slight pause, and then she turned to look at Johnny with a newfound curiosity in her eyes. “Have they always been like that?” She never really asked much about the Boss. For all of them, the past wasn’t worth knowing. Everything was about the next step, moving forward, and forgetting whatever was behind them. The longer you dwelled, the harder it got. No matter how fucked up the past was, not matter how badly you wanted to hold on to what you used to have, you just kept going.

All of them just constantly, _constantly_ kept going.

“Pretty much. It was like the more they got hurt, the more determined they got. Fuckin’ beast of a kid.” Johnny sighed like he was letting his soul slip loose and finally get some air. “Feels stupid to call them a good person, considering, but they’re a hell of a friend.”

They both sat quietly, and they thought about things.

Shaundi thought about how much of her life she’d spent seeking out a friend, seeking out approval and companionship, and how much the Saints filled her with that determination to prove she could do it. Whatever “it” was, she wanted to do it. She thought of how much approval from the Boss sent shocks of elation through her blood, and wondered if that was a dangerous way to feel. She thought of the family she used to have, who always glossed over her and failed to see when she was fading way, and she thought of how the Boss always seemed attentive, even if they both knew what she was saying was complete bullshit. They listened to her, and she couldn’t stop listening to them. She thought about how something in the Boss’s voice lit fires in people, how they made people want to fight and keep fighting. She thought about how she was happier with the Saints than she had been in years.

Johnny thought about love. It wasn’t a word he liked; something about it struggled to roll off his tongue, pierced at the sides of his mouth and made his throat swell closed. He’d never been very good at understanding himself, his own mind, or why he thought the way he did or felt the way he felt, but he was good at the _act_ of feeling. Even when his emotions ran like crevices deep into his heart, threatening to break him into pieces, he knew how to tense up and hold himself together without losing his mind. To say the word “love” didn’t matter as much as to act out on love, and that was something he was certain of. “Love” as a word was something he reserved for Aisha, and Aisha alone, to the point that he was certain he would never say it again. Understanding love through actions -- and therefore, understanding how he acted on love -- was something he only fully understood after he’d lost Playa. It made sense to him when acts of love were taking a bullet for someone, risking your life for them, and killing someone that threatened them, and it had made sense for Playa, too. When they were gone, and he felt that ache in his heart that he’d been too young and stupid to understand, suddenly showing love through flowers and washing the dishes seemed more important than before. But now that ache lingered, deep and gaping, and he couldn’t ignore the hole in his chest. Being with the Boss eased it, soothed the sharp edges of the pain, and he needed them. He swallowed roughly, his throat dry, and realized he hadn’t had any water since that morning. He wondered if he could help the Boss as much as they helped him. They’d been his only foundation for months now, and he wondered if he had it in him just yet to trade places with them.

Hour four struck. 7:36 pm. Their bodies felt heavy, weighed down, and gross. There was something about sitting around in the same room for hours that made them desperately want to shower and change their clothes. If there was anything a saint hated, it was being stagnant.

Pierce came back quietly, exhaustion settled in the lines of his face, and set down a big bouquet of soft pink peonies on the table. “Apparently,” he said, “peonies are in season.”

“We should get a vase,” Johnny pointed out. His voice was low, empty. Pierce looked up at him, off put by the hollow tone. He scrunched up his face the slightest bit, trying to understand what it was.

“We’ll get that after they wake up.”

“You want the plants to fucking die?”

“Jesus Christ,” Pierce swore, turned away and found himself suddenly heated. “So fucking sorry, Gat. Lemme go get right on that.” His words dripped with sarcasm, anger, and exhaustion. He was on edge again, and he hated it.

Funny how their emotions were swinging on a pendulum. For a while they could play cards and be okay, but then the slightest thing sent them back into that pent-up vility. It was hard to settle down, to rest in the middle of angry and coping. Hospital waiting rooms were limbo, and to survive in one they had to play a balancing game between okay and not okay. The three of them weren’t doing a great job.

“I’ll go get a vase,” Shaundi said in a forced ease, a long-practiced veteran of the balancing act, and stood up. “I needa walk around anyway.” She stretched upwards, hands pointed towards the ceiling, and as she fell back with a small huff, Pierce caught her glance. He didn’t say anything, but there was an apologetic thanks in his eyes. He nodded. She nodded back, and then she walked out. Pierce settled back into his seat.

Johnny spoke again. “Hey, Pierce, can I ask you somethin’?”

He looked at Johnny with caution. There was a hesitation. “Sure,” he relented.

“Do you have, like-- feelings and shit?”

“The fuck? Yeah, obviously, I have fucking feelings and shit, last I checked.”

Johnny shook his head. “No, fuckhead, I meant for them.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in a completely meaningless direction. Pierce understood what he meant, but he didn’t want to answer.

“I mean--” He started, and then stopped, and then tried to start again, and stopped again. “Why the fuck are you asking me something like that?” he said instead.

“Because they’re my friend.”

He dropped his aggression and sunk back into his seat. He averted his eyes like a child caught sneaking candy when he’d been told not to, a shame that was not borne of the act itself, but only of knowing that he’d been caught. “I don’t know right now,” he lied. “We’re in a weird spot. It’s mostly just about sex, anyway.”

Johnny was looking at him like he knew he was lying, like he’d once said the exact same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 2:36 am i don't kwno where i am anymore. im just gay and i go tippity tippity tap until my hands fall off. next chapter will hopefully be longer i'm just enjoying doing these brief bits with all the lieutenants.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lieutenants gather round the freshly-awakened boss.

It was 8:53 pm when the nurse told them the Boss was out of surgery, and it was 8:54 pm when they were all clambering into their room like their lives depended on it.

The Boss’s face was hidden behind bandages, wrapped away and obscured under white gauze. What parts they could see were washed bare, a rare sight for the Boss that was usually coated in extravagant, vivid, and poorly-applied makeup. The room was dark, cold, and dry. Their right eye was staring straight up, counting the tiles of the ceiling, and they did not twitch when the lieutenants entered.

They looked tired. They looked bleary and hurt. They looked...vulnerable.

“Hey.”

All three lieutenants stood there. Pierce and Shaundi weren’t sure what to do, what to say, or even what to think.

“Hey,” Johnny returned, as if it were easy. “You look like shit.” He pulled up next to their bed, and leaned over to look at the massive bundle of bandages keeping pressure on their left eye. “You look different, actually. You do somethin’ with your hair?”

The faintest laugh escaped them, a slight tug at the corner of their lips. “Fuck off,” they mumbled. “I can’t feel my face.”

Pierce and Shaundi shifted over, cautiously, to the opposite side of the bed from Johnny. Pierce sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “This mean I get your job now?” A weak joke he should have known better than to try by now. Even through their exhaustion, the Boss’s right hand shot up to flip him off.

“I could still kick your ass,” they said. There was no venom in their bite, though, and Pierce just gave a weak smile. Shaundi reached out, slipped her hand into the Boss’s, and felt a small bit of relief wash over her as they gave her a small squeeze.

Even when like this, they were still the Boss.

“Are you okay, Boss?” She asked, leaning her weight on the bed. “You want me to bring you something? I bet I could get you some smokes, if you wanted.”

“I think I’d rather have that prick’s head on a spike.” Their voice was so uncharacteristically quiet, so hushed, like speaking was a massive exertion on their body. It probably was.

“You don’t wanna get that yourself?” Johnny asked. “We could turn his murder into a team-bonding exercise and everything.”

They hummed. “Maybe. It’s too hard--” they cut themself off, swallowed, and settled back in their pillow. “I don’t wanna do anything right now. With all of you around me like this, I feel like a grandma handing out her last will and testament-- Oh, shit,” they mumbled, voice dropping even lower. “ _Án-má_.”

“I’ll tell her,” Johnny shrugged.

“Don’t freak her out like last time.” They just barely got the words out.

“Please, she loves me. It’ll be fine.”

Pierce leaned over them and lightly brushed his fingers over their arm. Their eye flitted over to stare at him, and for a moment they just stared at each other. There was something unspoken between them, that was so desperate to _be_ spoken, that it was annoying the shit out of everyone else in the room.

“You sound tired,” he said. “You should sleep.”

They kept staring at him like they were considering the validity of his stance. “Yeah,” they finally replied. “Probably.”

“We’ll fuck off, then.” Johnny reached to the back of his belt and unlatched his GDHC .50 from its holster. He checked the ammo, and handed it to them by the butt. “In case anyone tries to fuck with you.”

They reached for it with their right hand, grabbed for it, and missed. They paused, hand still lingering in the air, and tried again. They brushed it, but missed again. Their face suddenly looked drained of blood, sallow, like a massive fear had suddenly washed over them and squeezed their insides. They just barely twitched their lips, and Johnny reached over and pulled over their other hand. “Use two,” he murmured. “It’ll be easier if you use two hands.”

Hands slightly shaking, they used both to reach for the gun, and successfully gripped it tight. They squeezed the handle between their palms, reassuring themself it was tangible. Their eye was red, glossed over, and they forced out in a shaky breath, “Fuck.”

Johnny quirked his head, stone-faced, prompting them to continue.

They tightened their face, trying to maintain their facade. “I don’t think I can shoot--”

“Warning shots,” Johnny interrupted. “Even if you miss, it’ll scare them. Fire enough times, you’re bound to hit something.”

“Right.” It escaped them in a single, shaky breath. “Right.” They brought the pistol to their chest, resting it there so they could feel the cold metal against their heart. They kept their right hand wrapped loosely around the grip, finger on the trigger.

“We got boys outside, just in case. Same thing won’t happen as last time.”

They closed their eye and nodded slowly, remembering just a month or so ago when they pushed Johnny out of the hospital through a sea of Ronin. They should have known better than to leave the hospital unguarded. “You were right-- shoulda just gotten you some flowers.”

“Oh, shit,” Shaundi suddenly straightened up, “we forgot the flowers.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it--”

“Too late.” Pierce put up his hand, pointing after Shaundi as she sprinted out of the room. “We already got you some, just forgot to bring ‘em in.”

The fear that had gripped them shifted to an uncharacteristic bashfulness mixed with surprise and a building sense of unease. “Oh, shit,” they mumbled.

Shaundi came back with the peonies all pretty in their vase, hefted them up onto the bedside table, and turned to the Boss with a grin.

They were staring at the flowers with a disbelieving curiosity. “Peonies,” they whispered. For the first time in their very short life, they actually felt known. They suddenly felt very, very real, aware of themself and their personality. It was odd. They weren’t as opaque as they thought they were. For that, they didn’t know how to feel.

“You really think I’d spend all that time in your apartment and not learn a single thing about you?”

They glanced at Pierce. He was smiling, but in the way someone smiles when they’re exhausted and about to say “I’m fine.” Instead of smiling back, they pressed back into their pillows and watched him.

“Thank you,” they said, still quiet and strained. “You guys are really thoughtful for a bunch of violent murderers.”

None of them really did anything. They just stood around the Boss’s hospital bed, content in their actions, still afraid of the truths of being human, and watching the Boss press Johnny’s gun against their heart like a lifeline. Johnny broke the silence. “Sleep, Boss. You’ll be kickin’ ass again in no time.”

They watched Pierce and Shaundi slip out with little more than some nods goodbye, but they put their hand up to stop Johnny right as he took a step.

“Are you okay, Johnny?”

He looked up at the closed door, a cautionary glance around the small room, ensuring the security of their conversation. “If you gotta ask, that’s not a great sign.”

They looked up to meet his eyes. “It’s too soon for you to be back here.”

“Hey, at least I’m not the one laid out this time.” He rolled his shoulders and sighed. “It hurts. Who knows, though, maybe focusing on something other than myself for a bit will do me some good.”

The Boss shifted and suppressed all their fears and insecurities into a pit in their stomach. “Johnny, don’t worry about me. Some retraining and it’ll be like nothing ever happened. If it’s too early for you to be doing this, then don’t.”

He laughed without humor. “Shut up, Boss. You just wanna be a martyr.”

“Pretty rich coming from you, asshole.”

“We’re never gonna get anything done if we keep spending all our time jumping in front of bullets for each other.”

The Boss put up their hand. “Grab my hand.” He did as asked. “Johnny, you are my best fucking friend, and if you do something stupid and get yourself hurt while I’m in here, I’m gonna bludgeon you to death, and you know it’ll be slow and painful ‘cause I have no depth perception and I _will_ keep missing.” Their voice sounded even rougher than usual, like every word scraped their throat raw, but Johnny laughed.

“I’ll see you soon, Boss.”

They released his hand. “I’m serious, Johnny.”

“Got that.”

He walked out, closed the door behind him, and they listened as his heavy footsteps beat their way down the hallway. For a second, they just sat silently in their dark little room.

And then a second passed, and they were certain they were alone, and their throat closed, and their eyes burned, and they covered their mouth with their hands to muffle their own pathetic sobs that heaved through their miserable chest.

“Fuck,” they breathed, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

They sat alone in their little hospital bed and they clutched at the sheets, desperate to keep themselves together. They felt helpless. They were scared. They were enraged at feeling this way, because they knew they would adapt, because they were okay, but they weren’t at the same time, and it felt like the world was crumbling more and more with each passing day, and they were a zealot trying to patch it back together.

They sobbed with no tears, they stared at the ceiling with their chest on fire, and they hated themself for failing yet again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all are enjoying this as much as i am


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny goes home, feels like shit, and ends up having to talk to the Boss's grandma by himself.

Johnny drove home with the radio off, Pierce in the passenger seat, and a lot of silence hanging in the air. They didn’t really want to talk to each other, even though neither of them liked the tension brought on by their silence. The hum of the engine and the crunch of loose gravel on the road was all they had. Both of them secretly wished Shaundi was there, for her skill at dismantling uncomfortable silences, but she had driven herself.

It was 9:32 pm when he dropped Pierce off outside his apartment building in Shivington, and it was 10:10 pm when he finally got home. He lingered outside the front door for a moment, trying to force himself to be ready to handle what lie within.

Nothing.

Inside the house was nothing. It was empty and still, mostly untouched, and overflowing with a stifling silence.

Not so long ago, it would have had music playing and light spilling out from whatever room Aisha happened to be in when he got home; it would have drawn him to her, and he would have wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck and breathed her in. Her soft laugh and softer touch would have eased whatever preoccupied him, and he would have thought about the flowers he was going to bring her, the dinner they were going to make, and the night they were going to spend together. He would have listened to her talk about her day, complain about the struggles of pretending to be dead, and fantasize about where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. He would tell her about the Saints, about the other gangs, about how nice it was to be out of prison, and anything else that popped into his head. Alternatively, he would have gotten home too late, and she would be sleeping, and he would undress in the dark and slip in beside her. He would pull her to his chest and relax as she melted into his warmth, and for that night he would understand contentment. In the morning he would wake up to her tracing her fingers over his tattoos and his scars, head nuzzled against his chest, or something to that effect.

Tonight the house was silent and cold.

He went inside, dropped his ruined overshirt in the trash, grabbed a beer from the fridge, checked the cat food, and collapsed on the couch in the living room. Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger, he wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do.

The Boss had told him again, and again, and _again_ to move out of Aisha's house. They'd offered him one of their apartments, "hell," they'd said, "you can have any of the cribs. You can take the one I'm standing in, but you _gotta_ get outta there." But Johnny didn't want to let go yet. "Keep the house," they'd said, "you don't have to sell it, but living in there is gonna kill you." But Johnny didn't like moving on. He wanted to stay where he was, with what he knew, with what he wanted the world to be. To move out would be to move on, and moving on meant letting go, and letting go meant Aisha was dead and she wasn't coming back and there was nothing he could do about it. He was terrified of that helpless feeling, and now that the Boss was in the hospital it was only getting worse.

He took a sip of his beer. He was festering like an open wound.  

In truth, he felt that for all his life he'd been a weapon. His only tool was a hammer, every problem was a nail-- except for when they weren't. There were too many things brute strength and sheer force couldn't fix. There were too many things they couldn't prevent. When he reached those hurdles, he felt more lost than ever. None of that helped all this grief and emotional ache. He was forced to look inwards and reevaluate the role he'd been assigned, forced to wonder if he was more than muscles and intimidation factor, and it was hell to think about. It was easier to just be, than to think about how to be.

When the Boss was the Playa, they'd been much the same as Johnny. Angry, violent, chaotic, and barely contained. Both of them were attack dogs content to attack, and Johnny had never thought to be much else. They hadn't ever questioned it, until the Playa was blown to high hell.

After they'd woken up, but before they'd reignited the Saints, they'd sat on the porch smoking and the Boss had recounted how they had killed Julius after discovering the wiretaps. "I put all my fuckin' faith in that man, and look what he did to me," they'd growled, not even needing to point to the burn scars coating their back with pink, twisted, hardened skin. "I'm never gonna be anyone's tool again, you hear me? I'm my own bitch now."

Johnny really did think the world of them. Since day one, they'd clicked, and they'd fought for each other, and they'd cared about each other. He admired the Boss for their charisma and direction, but unlike Julius, he never saw them as standing on any pedestal, looking down at him. They weren't unreachable; they weren't condescending. At the end of the day, they were still that same shithead 17-year-old he'd been friends with so many years ago. He loved that about them-- the dangerous part of it was that that meant they still needed him sometimes. He'd protected them before, saved them before, and every now and again he would have to do it again. That wasn't something he resented; on the contrary, it was something he was determined to do. But, they needed him right now for something other than stopping a bullet from catching their skull or pushing them out of the way of a swinging bat. They needed him to help them heal.

So, for the first time in a long time, Johnny was questioning his repertoire of abilities and what he was made for, how he was supposed to interact with this brand new world he was sitting in, and how he was supposed to help the Boss when he couldn't even help himself.

He closed his eyes, forced a stop to the gears turning in his brain, and told himself the Boss would be fine. The old mantra repeated in his head, and he told himself _move on, move on, move on_ , no matter how much it stung.

He slowly finished off his beer, rose from his seat and went to take a shower. In the morning he would let the Boss's grandmother know what happened, and then he would figure out what else needed to be done. Tonight, he would sleep off all the bullshit.

Unfortunately for Johnny, instead of waking up refreshed with a clear head, he woke up with a throbbing headache and the pangs of hunger in his stomach. Nothing could ever be simple, could it?

He felt like he had to physically rip himself out of bed. It was past eleven, which was actually rather early for him, but he felt like he'd somehow slept 20 hours and 1 hour at the same time. To make it that much worse, the cats had strategically laid down around him, nearly trapping him in. He appreciated their presence, but he didn't need their temptation.

He stumbled out of bed, grabbed a near empty bottle of ibuprofen out of the bathroom medicine cabinet, and seethed as his head throbbed. If Aisha were there--

He stopped the thought before it started, and splashed cold water on his face. He knocked back two pills, brushed his teeth, and stumbled downstairs in his underwear.

Bread in the toaster, he took a drink of week-old orange juice straight from the jug as he dialed the Boss's grandma.

It went directly to voicemail.

"Christ, Ya-fang, pick up your fucking phone," he complained into the voicemail recording. "Don't you give a shit about your idiot grandkid?" he hung up.

After he ate his bland pieces of toast, wishing he'd bothered to go shopping and gotten a new thing of peanut butter, he called her again. He went to voicemail again. "You better not be dead, grandma." He hung up, dropped his phone on the counter, and begrudgingly trudged up the stairs to get dressed.

He really didn't want to drive all the way down to the Little Shanghai to see the Boss's grandmother, but he also knew that if he didn't get a hold of her soon and tell her what was going on, she'd spend the next month bitching at Saints she passed on the street for being reckless, and everyone knew they couldn't tell her to fuck off or the Boss would beat the shit out of them.

Johnny used to hate it. He hadn't understood why the Boss would put up with a nagging old woman that called them _bǎobǎo_ and threatened Saints with her cane for calling her an old bag. She clearly had no fear of consequence, the way she talked to bangers, but that didn’t make her a Saint. He'd asked, once, why they didn't just kick her ass out. They'd stared at him, then shrugged and said, "She's my family."

It'd been enough to make him shut up. Johnny had never been close to his family, certainly not to his stuck-up, estranged grandparents. It wasn't something that mattered to him, but, if it mattered to the Boss, that was good enough reason to put up with Ya-fang.

It was almost noon by the time he finally got to her apartment. It was always rather odd and slightly uncomfortable standing there, knowing this was where the Boss had actually grown up and been a child.  He, rather carelessly, pounded on the door, and yelled out, “Ya-fang! You better not be dead in there!”

“I’m too young to die.”

Johnny swung his head to the side. Ya-fang was standing in the hallway, grocery bags in hand. He scrunched up his face.

Ya-fang was a short, broad-shouldered, heavy woman in her mid-60s. She had salt white hair and a hard face, likely the result of a very long, difficult life, and an odd scar on her eyebrow that Johnny had never bothered to ask about.

It was kind of weird to him how she looked so much like the Boss but so different from them at the same time. Like some sort of optical illusion. Granted, that was how genetics work, but the Boss was the kind of the person that made him want to believe they were just spawned from the dirt a full-grown adult with no relations.

“Hey, grandma,” he said. “Why don’t you ever pick up your fucking phone?”

“I don’t owe you anything,” she sighed, shuffling over to unlock her door. “Why are you here, alone?”

“Your kid’s in the hospital again.”

She stopped right as she was in the doorway, turned and looked at him, and the apprehension was written all over her face. “What happened this time?”

“Ronin caught ‘em across the face with a sword, if you’ll believe that. They lost their left eye, but they’ll be fine.” He shrugged loosely, trying not to look at her too much.

She sighed and deflated just a bit, closed her eyes and walked inside. “Okay,” she said, making her way to the tiny kitchen and leaning her cane against the island counter. “Are you coming in?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Make plans.” She was already pulling out groceries and putting them away. “Will you take me to see them? Or will I have to call a taxi?”

He closed the door behind him and plopped down in a dining chair right across from her. “You know they don’t want you going to visit them.”

She snorted, it turned into a full laugh, and she shook her head. “Right. Because the other gangs will use me against them? Because I am so old and helpless.”

“Exactly.” He pointed at her, looking over the rim of his glasses, before kicking back and leaning against the table. “They’ll come see you when they’re out, anyway.”

“Heartwarming.” She was washing vegetables in the sink. “You look skinny. Why aren’t you eating?”

“Christ, Ya-fang, I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter.”

“Stop being an ass,” she said, pulling a drink out of the fridge and handing it to him. “I don’t have much anything else to do but worry.”

“Your life must fucking suck.”

She turned away from him and hummed like she was considering it. “Hsin-hung told me something bad happened, but they never say what,” she said. “None of you ever tell me anything.”

He cracked open the can she gave him and took a drink. It tasted like oranges, but it was tangier than most sodas he’d had before. Not very sweet. He liked it. “You aren’t a gangster, granny. You just happen to be related to one.”

“Lucky me.” Her words had a bite to them, an unspoken discontent that made Johnny roll his eyes.

“If you hate it so much, just leave.”

He expected her to get angry, to lash out at him, or _something,_ but she just shook her head. “No,” she sighed, “I can’t leave Hsin-hung here all alone.”

“They ain’t a goddamn baby, grandma, they can take care of themselves.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Her voice reeked of disappointment in Johnny. “I’m here for me, not them.”

He stopped, a little taken aback, and considered her for just a second. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

She turned to face him, and in the shape of her eyes he saw the Boss. “I lost my daughter 13 years ago, thought I lost my grandbaby eight years ago-- they ran away. Never came back. Now I have my grandbaby back. They're a gangster, yes, but I have them back. Why would I throw that away?”

Johnny shifted in his chair, avoiding her parental stare. “I dunno,” he finally replied. “Why’s anyone ditch their kids?”

“Some people are made of shit.”

He laughed and shook his head. He paused for a very long time, watching Ya-fang cut up vegetables. A question was pushing at the edges of his mouth, but his words felt heavy on his tongue and he struggled to force them out. “Ya-fang--” he started, and then stopped again.

She didn't look at him, but raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“How do you-- How do you deal with that? Losing your daughter, I mean. It just seems... a little too fucked up to bounce back from.”

She set down her knife and looked up. "Did Hsin-hung ever tell you what happened?"

"Nah. The Boss never talks about shit before the Saints."

She looked back down, and returned to chopping. "Yu-ting was murdered-- mugging that went bad. Hsin-hung saw it happen. They were ten. Hard for me, harder for them." Her words hung in the air for a moment, then she took a breath and continued. "I had to swallow my pain to help them-- didn't do good enough, I think. Not a lot of good therapists in Stilwater, not that I could afford. I encouraged them to keep face, but they were rotting. All I wanted to do was go back to Taiwan, be with my husband and son, but Hsin-hung was born here. Tearing them away from everything they know so I wouldn’t have to stay here-- wouldn't that be worse? Maybe I made the wrong choice." She stopped. "Not important-- Surviving is a choice. It hurts, more than anything in the world, but you choose to do it."

They both sat there in the silence for a moment, nothing but the chop of Ya-fang's knife through the vegetable stems. "At least," she said, "that's what I think. What do I know?"

Johnny took a drink of his soda as quietly as he could. So this is what it felt like to have an old person you could come to for advice, huh? It wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It was just kind of sad. He thought the boss would probably be pissed that their grandma was handing out their story like that; but then again, on the rare occasions she was around them, she never talked like this to the other Saints and Johnny was the only other person who knew where she lived or how to contact her-- they must _really_ trust him. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

She turned to look at him. “Should I make lunch for two?” she asked.

Johnny thought about it for only a moment. "Enh, sure." He swung his chair around and leaned on its back, resting his chin on his arms. “I’ll get some food as payment for my good deeds.”

She actually smiled at him, and he noticed that the Boss got their dimples from her. "Good."

While she cooked, Johnny stared at the walls. There were photos of lots of people and places he didn't know, but there more photos of the Boss. It was like Ya-fang had catalogued their life through photos, up until a sudden stop when they were a young teen. There was something deeply unsettling about seeing the Boss in a child’s face, grinning at him through the grain of a 15-year-old photo. Johnny had decided a long time ago that he was not the kind of person to be curious about the Boss's past; as far as he was concerned, nothing before the day they met really mattered until they decided it did. More than that, it reminded him of what he’d been like as a kid, who he’d been and what he’d wanted to do with his life. He’d wanted to be a cop when he was nine, he remembered, and a sort of bitter appreciation for the irony of that suddenly washed over him. His lip twitched, and he stopped looking at the photos.

The dull ache that had settled in his chest for the past month felt a little soothed, he noticed. Just a bit, like the slightest salve on a raging wound. He thought, maybe, that he understood why the Boss kept their grandma around, now. It wasn’t an act of charity or a show of vulnerability: it was just a legitimately caring relationship. That was a pretty nice thing to have, especially when tragedy hounds you at every corner.

“Hey, Ya-fang?” he suddenly broke their silence, tilting his face up at her.

She didn’t respond, but she looked to him with attentive eyes.

“Thanks for makin’ lunch.”

She looked at him curiously, but nodded curtly. “Welcome, Johnny.”

He left Ya-fang’s apartment when it was almost three in the afternoon, and even though he had essentially done nothing all day he felt rather content. As he walked down the street to his car, he whipped out his phone and dialed the Boss. It rung a bit longer than usual before he heard their hoarse, permanently-tired-sounding voice.

_“Yo.”_

“Hey, Boss, your granny is pretty cool. I might kick it with her more often.”

He heard them laugh into the receiver, before they groaned. _“Shut up, man, my face still hurts.”_

“Yeah, I told her about all that. She’s real chill about it, honestly.”

_“Thanks, Johnny. You know I coulda just called her myself.”_

“Yeah, sure. When’d you wake up?”

A long pause. _“When you called.”_

“That’s what I thought, dumbass. It’s fine. I got a meal out of it.”

_“Tight. Hey, do me a favor and shoot up any Ronin you see today, okay?”_

“Oh, you ain’t even gotta ask, Boss. I shoot on sight.”

_“That’s what I love about you. I’ll see you later, man.”_

The line clicked off and Johnny hopped into the driver’s seat of his stiletto. He gripped the steering wheel and a single thought pushed its way to the front of his mind.

Surviving is a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if yr still reading this i lov u and im sorry


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaundi goes to visit the Boss, and as much as they butt heads, they both really do care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small cw for mentions of drug addiction in this chap

Standard visiting hours at the hospital were 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. Visiting hours for a Saints Lieutenant were whenever they felt like it. The nurses and doctors completely ignored Shaundi as she made her way back to the Boss’s room, and she was happy to bound along like she belonged there. 

It was only the boss’s first day in the hospital since surgery, at 9:26 a.m., but Shaundi had made a pointed decision to be the first to visit them. 

She rapped a familiar tune on the door, very loudly, and heard the Boss groan, "God, what the fuck do you want? It's early as shit." 

She opened the door and poked her head through with a grin. "Boss, it's me!" 

They blinked at her. "What the fuck, it's like 6 in the morning--" 

"It's almost ten, Boss." She closed the door behind her and perched on the side of their bed. 

They stared at her like they were suspicious of something. "I was asleep anyway. I'm surprised you can get up this early." 

"I'm full of surprises," she grinned. She took her backpack off and swung it into her lap. "Including this: I got a present for you." 

The boss perked up the tiniest bit, watched Shaundi with a restrained curiosity. "What is it?"

She pulled out a present and put it in their lap, before scooting over to lay next to them on the hospital bed. It was probably against protocol, but neither of them particularly cared. The boss ripped the wrapping paper off in as big of a chunk as they could, balled it all up and chucked it across the room. Upon opening the plain box underneath, they mumbled, “Oh, shit.” 

It was a brand new 3DS, cosmo black. 

"This is-- Nintendo came out with a new console?" 

"Yup! Just this February, while you were asleep." 

"Shit-- did you steal this?" 

"Nah, I actually bought it. I felt bad for the kid working the store." 

They laughed, winced from the movement, and ripped open the side of the box. "I used to-- man, when I was a kid I loved video games. I used to hit up the arcade everyday to play Street Fighter and Double Dragon.” 

Shaundi, who had never played those games for more than a few minutes, nodded. “I like the games where you like, actually move stuff, you know? Like whack-a-mole and darts.” 

“Hey, you should try a beat-em-up or a sidescroller sometime. They’re the best.” They flipped open the 3ds and looked it over. “This is so cool. I haven’t checked out any new shit since like, 2002. Where’s the batteries?” 

"No batteries. Charging cable." Shaundi dug into the box and pulled out the charger for them, scooting away to plug it into the wall. “I got a game for you, too, did you see?” 

They pulled the present box forward, looking in. “Nintendogs plus cats,” they read. “What the fuck?” 

Shaundi laughed and fell back into the hospital bed next to them. “What, I thought you loved cats?” 

“ _ Real  _ cats,” they clarified. “Christ, is this for babies?” there was a glint in their eye even as they criticized it, flipping the game box over in their hands. “Ages five and up. Perfect. I’m five and up.” 

“Oh sweet, I was worried you were too young.” she said. “It’s about time you played some  _ real  _ games, anyway.” She tapped the box with her finger. “Name your favorite dog after me.” 

“Will do. I’ll call it Shaundog.” 

She laughed and leaned against them, careful to put her head low enough on their shoulder that she didn’t touch their face. She watched them close the 3DS and set it on the table next to them to charge. “Hey, Boss?” She began. 

“Yeah?” 

“How’s the face?” 

They made a short noise. “Fucking hurts. My vision isn’t as fucked up as I thought it would be, but grabbing shit is weird.” 

“Your depth perception is jacked.” 

“No shit,” they sighed. “I’ll have to learn how to shoot again, but that’s simple.” 

“Love that confidence,” she nodded. 

“Shut up,” they chided, using their shoulder to jostle her a bit. “You really think this is all it takes to knock me out of commission? I’ll be out of here by tomorrow, tops.” They punctuated their sentence with a stifled yawn, trying their best not to seem tired. 

“You’ve been sleeping a lot?” she asked, looking up at them. She could see bags under their left eye, something they usually hid under a thick layer of foundation. 

“If someone’s not talking to me, I’m sleeping.” They paused for a moment and toyed with the edges of present box, tearing at it and dropping the pieces to the floor. “The nurse said we heal better when we’re sleeping.” 

“Sleeping also just, like, feels good,” Shaundi shrugged, head still comfortably nestled against the Boss. She liked using them as a pillow, but was always a little bit surprised that the Boss actually let her do it. 

“You’re tellin’ me. I slept for five years straight.” They framed it like a joke, but they didn’t laugh. Neither did Shaundi. 

She shifted upwards, eyeing the cut on their face. She wanted to see just how big it was, but it was hidden behind white gauze wrapped all around their head. “You look like a mummy,” she commented. 

They put their hand on her face and tried to push her away with no real effort or intent. “Shut up.” 

She laughed a bit, grabbed their hand by the sides and pulled it away. “What? You do!” 

“Shut up!” They said, a bit more harshly. “I don’t!” 

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. They were upset. They weren’t looking at her, but were ripping bigger and bigger chunks out of the present box. 

“You don’t look like a mummy,” she relented. There was a stiff pause between them, the Boss still just ripping apart the cardboard in their lap, before Shaundi switched topics. “I bet I could sneak you some weed in here, if you wanted.” 

“I’ll be out by tomorrow,” they reminded her. “We can roast a bowl in peace, then.” The truth was, they weren’t actually sure when the doctor thought it would be okay for them to leave. They just knew they couldn’t stand to be in the hospital for any longer than a few days. They would leave even if it meant their face splitting back open. 

Shaundi sat back, watching them fiddle with the box. "But the weed might help with the pain-- do they have you on painkillers?" 

The Boss shook their head. "I refused them. I'm just toughing this shit out." 

She knit her brow. "Why? Boss, that's gotta suck." 

They didn't return her glance, but they ripped the cardboard box in two. "It's better this way, Shaundi." 

She opened her mouth to retort, suddenly remembered the faded track marks on their arms, and grew silent. The Boss never talked about their past much beyond the superficial details, but some things were unfortunately easy to figure out anyway. 

For another moment, they just sat in the relative silence of the hospital room before Shaundi switched topics again. 

"You know, I heard somewhere that chicks dig scars." 

The Boss flicked their eye over to stare at her. "That helps me how?" 

"Mmm, I guess it doesn't. I was trying to say you'll still be sexy-- possibly even sexier." 

That did manage to elicit a laugh from them, albeit a small one. "Great. Cause I was real stressed about my sex factor over here." 

"I was thinkin' about it yesterday; you're gonna get a fake eye, right? I had an ex that had one of those. Apparently you can get custom made ones. Maybe you could get a purple one, or one that says "bad bitch" on it." 

She grinned as they laughed again and shook their head. "That's-- that's fucking dumb. Seriously. I was just gonna get a plain white one." 

"That's so boring for you." 

They shrugged. "I think it'll look good." 

"I guess everything looks good on you." 

The Boss sat back and folded their hands around the remains of the box as if they were cradling it. "That's real." 

Shaundi sat back with them and tried very hard to really, truly listen to the sounds of the hospital room. It was boring. Rather unstimulating. 

"It must get lonely in here," she said. 

"Doesn't bother me." 

She gave them an incredulous look; for once she casted doubt on their semi-fabricated pretense of being an untouchable badass. "Really, Boss?" 

They shot her a warning glance back, a clear demand to back off. "Yeah." 

She scrunched up her face and shoulders, pressed into their side and assumed her best teasing voice, the kind she usually used to mock their driving. "Would it kill you to be openly-- openly  _ open _ for once? Drop the crypticism?" 

The Boss stared her down, one hard eye that glowered with a disdain for vulnerability and emotional adeptness. 

She didn't get a verbal answer, only the hard stare. 

"Jesus Christ, you remind me of my mom," she finally relented, collapsing back against the hospital bed. "Do you drink wine instead of going to therapy, too?" 

"I'm more of a whiskey kind of mom." 

She snorted out a laugh despite her frustrations. "Ooh, you'd make cute, whiskey-scented babies." 

"Too bad I only do anal." 

She laughed, gripped their arm and squeezed, her hand barely able to wrap around their forearm. "Be real with me, Boss-- you're good? You're really, really good?" 

"I'm fuckin' amazing, Shaundi. No doubts about it." 

"Then I'll catch you later, 'kay Boss?" 

They let their hand reassuringly ghost over her shoulder as she stood, a small sign of acknowledgment and thanks. They watched her go, and when she was at the doorway they said, "Thanks again, Shaundi-- for the game." 

She smiled at them. "Anytime, Boss. Tell me how it plays." 

"I'll let you know." 

After she left the Boss slowly fell back asleep, how they would stay until Johnny called them that afternoon.

Shaundi felt content with her visit. Despite their tendencies to butt heads, the boss always brought out a subtle kind of confidence in her that was different from the one she'd spent years cultivating, and it felt good to impart some of that on a stressed out Boss. It was a casual kind of assurance to say whatever she pleased without a need to navigate and customize to the people around her. Shaundi was not shy, or socially insecure, or any of the things might prevent her from speaking her mind, but she was extremely observant to the behaviors of others. It was something she'd picked up from a young age; it was a skill dedicated to getting the right reactions out of people by saying the right things and being the right person. The Boss inspired a desire to be direct and bluntly truthful, without fear of reproach. The Boss inspired a desire to be like them. 

She liked being around the Boss because they made her feel a little bit more human, like she wasn't playing a massive social game and could simply be. She liked being around the Boss for the moments where their facade slipped and they would be a little bit more human, too. Those were the interesting bits in life, to see the rare sides of people and to have them bring out your rare side. She wanted the Boss to not worry about personas around her anymore, but little bits at a time would do.

As she stepped out of the hospital, the saints on guard had switched and the new ones waved at her and greeted her by name. She had no idea what their names were or if she'd talked to them before, but the familiarity made her grin and greet them as if they were long time friends. 

That was something she loved dearly about being in the saints, something that electrified her dedication to the gang. It wasn't just getting attention or recognition, it was the sense of connection. These people valued her, saw her as a kind of family.  _ That  _ was an exhilarating thing to have. 

They asked her to hang with them, play hacky sack while they watched the front door, and she agreed. She could spare a while. 

Shaundi had never been fond of the idea of family. She knew it, in concept, only as a dysfunctional hell. But, the Saints made her feel like she had roots. She cared about the Saints, she cared about Johnny and Pierce, and she cared about the Boss. Even when the Boss was a cagey prick, she cared about them and knew they cared about her back. 

It felt good to have family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did yall kno u can upload chapters from mobile cause I didnt until rn lmao anyhow Shaundi's voice is. something I kinda struggle with. I've never really written her in depth before and her voice is kinda hard for me to nail down. She has a specific way of speaking that's very different from Johnny or Pierce so this is kinda my first attempt at really getting it. I hope it reads well!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce doesn't want to visit the Boss, but he ends up doing it anyway. Such is the inconvenience of having a great idea.

Pierce did not want to go visit the Boss. He did not like hospitals, waiting rooms were his personal hell, and he did not want to stand alone in a sterile white room with the Boss and have both of them feel weird and tense. Neither of them knew what their relationship was and showing up alone to visit them in the hospital would only make the confusion worse. He would wait until Johnny or Shaundi could go with him because that tension was unbearable and he didn’t know how to fix it. More than hating the tension, he hated not knowing how to fix it.

Pacing around Purgatory was killing him, though. He'd spent the morning and the afternoon on drive-bys and trying to dig up rumors from the Ronin about who cut the Boss, but they were being surprisingly quiet about it. He'd hoped arrogance would befriend him and let the prick on the bike make their identity very, very well known, but it was radio silence. The Ronin must know the Boss wasn't out of the game for long, and they must know the Saints would be after revenge, and they were protecting whoever did it. Any celebrations of that ambitious nobody would be kept private, and Pierce would have to dig deeper than street-level gossip.

All he knew for certain was that it hadn't been a lieutenant, which made this scenario all the more frustrating. A _nobody_ had done this.

Pierce felt like he was gonna collapse from stress. He wanted a drink, he wanted to go home, he wanted to stuff his face full of French fries-- a cat.

His eyes locked onto the maneki-neko sitting on the boss's desk as he paced past the door, right paw raised and plastic face stuck in a permanent grin. Its little black paw was beckoning him, but more importantly, it was reminding him of Ms. Murder.

The Boss's awful little cat.

He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and rolled his shoulders. No one ever really bothered to go to the Red Lite Crib because it was so small; it was usually the only crib the Boss had to themself. That was where Ms. Murder lived. That was where she was probably meowing and scratching up the furniture because the Boss wasn't there to replenish her food.

That cat was terrified of him, but the Boss would be pissed if she starved, and he wasn't a fan of animal endangerment either.

He swore and made his way up the stairs.

The Red Lite Crib was, quite literally, a block away, but he decided to drive anyway because he was frustrated and tired and didn't feel like going the extra mile. His car hummed to life, and he wondered what leftovers the Boss had in their fridge. He was going to eat them.

Pierce was at the apartment in what couldn't be more than a minute, was thankful the rule of not bothering to lock a crib door still applied to this shithole, and carefully crept in. "Ms. Murder?" he called out, shutting the door behind him. "I know you hate me, but I know your ass is probably hungry, too."

A tiny meow gave away her location under the computer desk. He fell to the floor, staring at her.

She was an all black cat with one big yellow eye; the other was lost to a mass of scar tissue that had claimed the entire right side of her face. Her ear was gone, too, and her tail was a stub.

The Boss said she'd been hit by a car or something; they'd pulled her out of the gutter and taken her to get patched up. Since then, the cat had been their baby.

"Hey, old lady," he greeted. "Your mama's not here to take care of you. You gotta deal with me."

She was puffed up like a damn Halloween decoration, hiding away in the corner of the desk. She meowed frightfully and gave a small swipe of her paw in his direction.

"Don't take it personally," the Boss had once said. "She treats everyone like that. I'm the only one she trusts."  

He sighed as Ms. Murder skidded away from him. He was taking it personally.

He stood up and kicked open the kitchen cabinet. As he scooped up the cat food and poured it into her little purple bowl, he noticed her cautiously treading into the light and watching him.

"Yeah, you know what's up, don't you?" he said. "Not so scary now that I'm feeding you, huh?"

She sat down behind the desk chair and waited for him to step away. He turned his attention to the fridge, speaking to the cat once again, "You know, it's not cool to play favorites. I've been tryna tell your mama that for months, but they don't listen for shit. Can I at least get you on my side?" As he grabbed a Tupperware full of chicken and veggies drowned in sauce, he heard her start crunching on her food.

He looked over. What remained of her tail was contentedly swaying back and forth.

"Looks like you're on my side," he said.

He stole a canned margarita and a fork from the Boss's kitchen, plopped down on their couch, and turned on the TV.

"Latest info says the infamous Boss of the 3rd Street Saints is hospitalized after a surprise attack on the suspected hideout of the resurrected street gang; though reports are somewhat inconclusive, they were escorted to the hospital by known gangster Johnny Gat and other associates--"

He groaned and flicked to another channel. He didn't wanna hear it. The news always said the same damn thing in different ways, and never knew who he was.

One would think after all he'd done, he'd get some credit, but life was a bitch.

The current channel was on an infomercial for gun holsters that could be latched to one's bra. He flicked to another. Porn. Flicked to another. Different porn. Flicked to another. A hallmark Christmas movie (isn't it fucking June?). Flicked again. Anna's talk show, once again on some spiel about the beauty of gentrification and the horror of visible minority culture. Flick. Another news channel, this one from that guy Jane Valderamma hated. Flick. A Godzilla movie from the 90s? Sick. He kicked off his shoes and dug into his dinner, wondering if it was from a restaurant or the Boss had cooked it.

Only half-way through his dinner and part way into watching Godzilla and Supermechagodzilla duke it out, the landline rang. "Ah, shit," he groaned, assuming it was some Saints who needed help. "The fuck could be going wrong _now_?"

He grabbed it on the third ring, rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger, and greeted with a sharp tone, "Yeah? What's happening?"

A short noise of surprise was his greeting from the other end. "Hsin-hung?"

His face scrunched up. "Huh? No. What? This is Pierce, who the hell is this?"

There was a pause, a mumbled conversation off the phone. "Uh-- This is David. Is Xavier there?"

He blinked, confused, and for some reason looked to Ms. Murder for answers.

She didn't have any.

"No-- No, Xavier isn't here-- look man, who are you? I think you got the wrong number. Are you a Saint?"

David laughed, audibly confused. "No? What does that mean?"

"It means-- fuck, man, you got the wrong number, I don't know why I'm talking to you."

"Xavier is not there?"

"No."

“Are they okay?”

“I don’t fucking know?”

"This _is_ Xavier's number."

"It's really not!"

"When Xavier comes back, can you tell them I called? Thank you."

"What the fuck, man? No!"

"Thank you, Pierce!"

The line clicked. David hung up on him.

Pierce rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. He was _so_ tired. Today was killing him. It wasn't even six yet, and he was ready to pass out. Why the fuck was everything being so weird--

Ms. Murder was rubbing up against his leg. He suddenly stopped, staring down at her. She was purring like a little motorcycle engine, nuzzling his leg with her head. When she looked up at him, she meowed, and it was actually pretty cute.

"Awe, a little food was all it took to make you like me, huh?" He squatted down to pet her and she headbutted his hand affectionately. "I can see why the Boss likes you, now. You ain't always insufferable."

She meowed again and Pierce, in a daring move, scooped her up to his chest and held her like a baby. "You know, I'm more of a dog person, but you might change my mind if you keep this up."

He plopped back down on the couch, scratching Ms. Murder under her chin while he watched Rodan get his ass kicked. In the time it took the movie to finish, he was able to polish off the last of the chicken and down his margarita in a can and clean all of it up, but as soon as he touched the front door, Ms. Murder lit up in a piercing whine.

She wrapped around his legs, gave long, drawn-out whines, so exaggerated he could see down her throat when she cried.

"Damn, you don't like to be alone at night, huh?" He bent down to scratch her head. "I think you'd flip if I tried to take you to my place-- plus, my lease says no animals--" He thought about it, letting her nuzzle into the palm of his hand. "Guess I could stay here for the night. Wouldn't be the first time."

He decided to sit back down on the couch. Ms. Murder hopped into his lap, purring as she sat, and he patted her head. "Why you never like me when Boss is around? Trying to make me look bad?" She didn’t respond, but tucked her legs into her body so she looked like a burnt loaf of bread.

For a moment he just sat with her, and remembered talking to Johnny about the Boss’s cats while they sat in the hospital waiting room.

“Do you get scared?” he asked her, scratching behind her ear. “You must know your mama does all this dumb shit.”

She gave a small mew that he had heard many times when she was smacking his face at night, and he nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we all get scared, baby. Boss scares the shit out of a lotta people.”

Typically, they scared the shit out of people that dared to cross them. But they also scared the shit out of people who didn’t know what they would do if they lost them. That was scarier than most kinds of fear, but it was the lives they lead.

"I just wish I could get _in_ the Ronin's shit, find out who did it and we could really make an example-- oh _shit_ , Ms. Murder, we tap ‘em!"

Ms. Murder blinked at him.

He patted her head and grinned. "We can get in their shit! If I can get wires in the places they hang, we can get some newbie saints to listen for info. I mean, it’s not our usual style, but it could work.” He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “So, let’s see, if we can get taps in like, five places, anywhere from three to 10 wires a location, depending on the size-- Pretty much anywhere from downtown to the Marina District-- Shit, I need a map and a sharpie!”

He picked up Ms. Murder, sat her on the desk chair, and started digging through the desk drawers for any maps of Stilwater. Finding none, he sighed and subjected himself to the ordeal of finding one online and printing it out. He _wished_ the Boss would get a laptop from a more recent time than 2004, but they refused. He knew their password (WorldWarrior1991, for some reason) and he wasn't worried about finding what he needed, but he couldn't stop tapping his foot. This shit was so _slow_ and he had _ideas_ that needed writing!

One day he would teach the Boss to appreciate modern technology. One day.

When he got the map he wanted printed out, he snagged a sharpie and started to mark off buildings in Ronin territory: casinos, hotels, restaurants, even a few outdoor areas where he'd noticed Ronins liked to gather or frequented patrol.

"Ms. Murder, I am a fucking genius," he said. "Ronin aren't talking on the street 'cause they're protecting someone-- but they'll talk to each other about it; I'd bet money on it. If we can even get a first name, we could narrow down on it and get that motherfucker's head on a spike. Then maybe you could eat them, huh?" He leaned over and gave her a scratch under the chin. "It shouldn't even be that hard to wire these places up! They're all public spaces; just go in and plant a mic without being noticed. Fuckin' too easy." He grinned and rolled up his marked map.

Again, as soon as his hand hit the door, Ms. Murder began to scream. He turned around to face her.

"Ah, shit. Ms. Murder, I'm about to be the best lieutenant ever."

He dipped into the closet and snatched the Boss's satchel bag, grabbed a smaller pillow from the bed and stuffed it inside, before picking up Ms. Murder and carefully setting her down inside of it.

She looked curious, and a little confused, but she put her face to the pillow, must have smelled the Boss’s perfume, and laid down.

"Okay, baby," He said, "Let's go visit the Boss."

A small meow was his only reply as he practically ran to his car, buckled the satchel into the back seat, and slammed out of the driveway and onto the main streets. His map sat next to him, and he felt so proud he forgot his previous qualms with visiting the Boss alone.

Ms. Murder was, surprisingly, rather calm the entire car ride, though she did like to make noises at him. He accused her of not liking classical music more than a few times.

Pierce didn’t bother to hide Ms. Murder as he rushed into the hospital, but just held her in the satchel as he ran up the stairs to the Boss’s room. When he got there, he banged on the door and heard them groan before he heard them speak.

“What the fuck! Sure, yeah, whatever, come in!”

He threw open the door and immediately shut it behind him, brandishing his rolled up map like a weapon. “I got ideas,” he said.

The boss was staring at him, holding a 3DS in their hands. “Hello to you too.”

“I got ideas! And your cat.” He dropped the map onto the side table and pulled the satchel around, scooping out Ms. Murder and handing her to the Boss.

They gasped. They dropped the 3DS to their side. Their voice shot into a gentle, high-pitched coo that had probably only been heard by four living persons, tops. “Oh, my baby!” They cradled her to their chest, scratching her belly and grinning at the sound of her loud purr. “Awe, my stinky little bastard, I missed you!” They kissed the top of her head and Pierce grinned.

“She likes me now. I went over to feed her and now I’m okay.”

They glanced up at him, a small smile on their face. “Really? So she won’t hide when you come over anymore?”

He gestured to the satchel. ”Obviously fucking not. Call that a problem solved.”  

They laughed, then sighed as they pet their cat. “Thanks, man. It means a lot to get to have her with me.” They tilted their head, grinned, and ran their hand over her head. “We match now, baby girl! Ha, oh man, I can’t believe my cat and I have matching face scars.”

Pierce had stopped watching them; instead, he had pulled up a chair to their bedside and was spreading his map out over their lap.

“Boss,” he interrupted. “I got ideas. I want you to hear ‘em.”

They finally looked at him face on, and he saw the change in their expression as they switched from doting on their cat to talking business. “Right. Go ahead.” They didn’t stop scratching at her chest even as they spoke.

“I was thinkin’ about it-- the Ronin don’t want that biker to face the consequences, right? Hell, that bitch probably got a promotion. So we’re getting radio silence on who did it. But this is the fuckin’ Ronin we’re talking about; arrogance is their fucking brand.”

“Not so much since Shogo ate shit.”

“But still! It’s still there. I’d bet you they’re talkin’ about it amongst themselves enough to fill up a fuckin’ book.”

The Boss’s eye narrowed, mulling over his suggestion. “What are you betting?” They finally asked, one eyebrow quirked.

“If I’m wrong, you can call my fuckin’ parole officer and tell him my real contact info.”

A laugh broke their firm stare, but they nodded. “And if you’re right?”

“You buy me dinner.”

“Deal.”

He grinned. “Now, the plan’s a lil spy movie for you-- do _not_ roll your eyes at me, Boss, you haven’t even heard it! It’s a lil spy movie but I think it’s got a real shot; I thought of it ‘cause I was watching Godzilla and they use microphones to monitor her. Now, we won’t even be doing the grunt work. Hear me out: we get some mics and some wires and we rig up these locations,” he pointed out his marked spots on the map, “let some freshly canonized saints do the listening, let some time go by, we’ll get something! Even if it’s just a first name, I’ll be able to do something with it. We can _get_ this motherfucker.”

They leaned back in their bed, thoughtfully rubbing behind Ms. Murder’s ear. “And what do you think we do once we get him?”

“That’s your call, Boss. I’m just laying the roadwork.”

For a moment, they just watched him and thought. Pierce held their gaze, certain of his work.

Finally, they relented.

“Okay,” they said, with a single nod. “Get some newbies on it. I’m trusting your call.”

Pierce almost jumped out of his seat. “Real shit? You’re down?”

“I’m down, Pierce; I think it can work. Just don’t over complicate shit like you love to do.”

He gripped his map and bobbed his head. “It’s about damn time! I knew you’d listen to me sooner or later; I’m good at this shit, you know, just cause you don’t like the stealthy approach doesn’t mean it doesn’t work-- I got a _lot_ more ideas, if you’ll finally listen--”

“ _Pierce_ ,” they interrupted. They looked more amused than irritated, but their voice was still commanding enough to cut into his spiel. “You’re doin’ good.”

He blinked, surprised by their response. “You forreal?”

“Real as shit, man.”

Pierce laughed, leaned back, and relaxed. “I was all freaked. Thought you were gonna be an asshole about it or somethin’.”

They glared at him.

“What? You can be a real prick.”

They kept glaring.

He just stared back.

Ms. Murder chittered.

Pierce laughed and leaned forward to pet her. She banged her face into his hand and he grinned. “She got real pissed every time I tried to leave without her.”

“She doesn’t like to be alone. I’ve been thinking of getting another cat to keep her company.”

“Oh,” he said, “I don’t know if this matters at all, but someone called the Red Lite Crib asking about, uh-- asking about an Xavier? Said his name was David, refused to believe he had the wrong number.”

The Boss’s face flashed with surprise, before immediately scrunching up and turning to an uncomfortable grimace. “I don’t know what the fuck that’s all about,” they said, shrugging their shoulders. “Probably just a wrong number.”

Pierce turned his head. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Cause you’re making that face you make when you’re lying about something, but also kinda confused by it.”

“What? I never get confused about shit. When the fuck have you ever seen this face before?”

“You made the same face when I asked you if you knew what an iPhone was.”

“I know what an iPhone is!”

“You do _now_.”

“That’s bullshit. You can’t read my face like that.”

He leaned forward and around, staring at their face straight on like they were a puzzle. “Nah, I think I can. You’re lyin’ to me.”

“I could be stabbin’ you instead, if you’d rather.”

“You like me too much to stab me.”

They raised a brow. “You wanna bet?”

He leaned back. “After I brought you your cat and everything? Harsh.”

Ms. Murder meowed as the Boss raised her up. “This is my baby, not an apology for being a dick.”

“So you aren’t gonna explain the call to me?”

“Fuck no.”

He decided to push his luck. He leaned over them once again and asked, “Are you Xavier?”

Their hand shot out and snatched his arm, pulling him in very close to their face. “Okay, motherfucker, yes. I am. But I don’t want it getting spread around like fuckin’ butter on toast, alright? So don’t be so fuckin’ loud about it.”

Pierce raised his eyebrows.

He was looking over their face, trying to associate them with a name instead of a title. It felt clunky, forced together, like they weren’t actually supposed to have one. He looked at the pissed off glare in their eye and tried to see “Xavier” in it instead of seeing the Boss.

“Tell me one more thing and I’ll drop it.”

“Ballsy bastard. Sure.”

“Who’s David?”

“My uncle.”

Pierce finally sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “He doesn’t know what the Saints are.”

“He doesn’t.”

"How long do you think you can keep that up?" 

"Not long, but I'm pushing it 'til I can't anymore." 

“How are you gonna explain this away to him?”

“I’ll think of something-- tell him I was on vacation and it was a friend messing around, or something stupid like that.”

Pierce gave a small laugh. “Awe, I get to be a friend.”

The Boss didn’t reply, or even look at him. They just sat there, gave a slight shake of their head, and ran their hand through Ms. Murder’s short fur.

“Boss?” Pierce tried.

They flicked their eye over to stare at him, still quiet.

“Why isn’t anyone allowed to know your name? It just seems so-- like such a pain in the ass, you know what I’m sayin’?” He frowned and relaxed his weight. “It doesn’t exactly keep the cops off your ass or anything.”

They didn’t answer right away, opting to turn their gaze back to the cat in their lap instead. Slowly, they began, “That’s-- It’s not easy to explain.” They sighed and leaned back into their pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I stopped using my name to protect myself. Now I can’t let go of the safety net. Is that good enough?”

Pierce considered it. "Good as any answer."

Boss nodded. Ms. Murder had sprawled out across their lap, belly up and paws stretched. The Boss made a low cooing noise, scratching at her belly and chest. They tilted their head up, and said, "Have you got family, Pierce?"

He would be lying if he said the question didn't surprise him a bit. "Uh, yeah," he replied. "I got my parents, and four younger siblings."

"Oh, shit, you're an older brother. That explains a lot."

Pierce laughed. "Yeah, I guess it shows. I got three sisters and one brother-- he's only eight. I think I spent most of my time taking care of them, before my ass got arrested."

The Boss was slow to reply, imagining what it must be like. "Damn," they finally said. "That's hard for me to even think about. I never had any siblings-- I have at least one half-sister, but I've never met her."

"Enh, man, family's a fuckin' mess."

"Preach that."

They paused for a moment as the Boss shifted to accommodate Ms. Murder rolling around and trying to climb up their chest.

"It's nice talking to you like this," Pierce said, knowing the potential impact of his words. "Like a person, not like a boss."

A single moment of tension rushed over them like a wave, like a pendulum was swinging between the Boss retaliating to an infringement or them accepting their current position.

“I’m always a person,” they finally replied, and it was like the tension washed away with their voice. “We’re all just people, you know.”

“Then like a friend, I guess. Not like a banger.” He paused, and then added, “or like a hookup.”

The Boss faced him straight on, a small breath caught on their lips, and their face was unusually soft-- not defensive, not irritated, not calculating. Almost curious. They blinked, opened their mouth to say something, and closed it again. Their face tightened in frustration, but he recognized that it wasn’t frustration at him.

He smiled a bit. For someone who was the most closed off, cagey, and ineffable motherfucker possible, their face was so expressive and readable it may as well have been a picture book.

He leaned forward and tucked their hair behind their ear so he could see their face a little better. Their eye was red and glossed over, like they were exhausted, but they looked at him as if nothing had changed. He considered it a bit of a privilege to be able to touch the Boss in such a familiar manner, when most Saints wouldn't even hold their waist when they rode bitch on the Boss's motorcycle, but they seemed so exhausted he didn't think of it as anything more than offering a grain of comfort to a friend.

"When you get outta here," he said, "we'll do somethin' fun."

"Like hit a bunch of Ronin with my car?"

"That isn't fun. That is terrifying, because you'll just ram that shit into walls until the engine explodes. We can shoot them. Shooting them is fun."

They laughed. "Bitch."

"Bastard."

"Pussy."

"Asshead."

"Cocksucker."

"You would know."

They grinned. "I would."

"But I meant something fun like--" he began by reaching out to pet Ms. Murder, "going to the shelter and getting you that second cat."

They pursed their lips, a tell of theirs that notified him when they were trying to understand something. "So-- something fun, but in a civilian way."

"Yes. Help your ass cool down for a second. When you wanna blow shit up, call Johnny."

They leaned back and smiled, rubbing Ms. Murder's belly. "I'd like that."

Pierce stood up and stretched. His shirt lifted just enough to expose his stomach and the Boss took the opportunity to slap it. He made a noise of surprise, the Boss laughed, and he slapped their hand away.

"I'm gonna head out, Boss," he said, watching their hand for any potential retaliation. "Give me back the cat."

"No." They bundled her up to their chest. "She stays with me."

"She _can't_ stay with you; there's no fuckin' food here."

"So my ass gets to sit alone in the hospital, without even a cat to keep me company? That's fucked."

Pierce reached out and took Ms. Murder from their arms, plopping her back on the pillow in the satchel despite her vocal protests. "Yeah. Suck it up, big kid."

"Fuck you," they said. "At least I have my-- my fuckin' nintendogs."

Pierce tried his best to stifle a laugh. "Nintendogs? My little brother plays that game."

"It was a gift from Shaundi!"

Pierce laughed as he walked to the door, and called back. "I'm gonna get my plan started; I'll tell you when it's all set up."

"If any newbies complain, tell them it's my orders."

"Oh, I planned to. Later, Boss."

He left in relative silence, though Ms. Murder kept chittering as he walked away. He scratched her head and considered the fact that he'd learned more about the Boss and their life outside the Saints in the past hour than he had in all the previous months he'd known them. It seemed a debilitating injury was a great way to get someone to open up to you, though he was sure there had to have been other routes they could've taken first.

He tried one more time, as he exited the hospital and stepped out into the humid summer air, to think of the Boss as Xavier instead of as Boss. To put a name to their face, their entity, still felt strange.

Ms. Murder tried to jump out of the satchel, and he caught her with both hands before she could hit the ground.

"I know," he said, "I'm thinkin' about them too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the longer i work on this the more i realize how long it's been since i've done creative writing that was longer than 3 pages long. i feel. VERY out of practice. but I'm enjoying this work and it's kinda nice to be able to figure out my writing against thru this. I hope it's still enjoyable even as i hammer out the kinks and figure out how to weave stuff together again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boss just got out of the hospital-- it's time to reestablish their presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to update the archive warnings on this fic for this chapter cause it's got actual violence in it and i decided it was enough to warrant a graphic content tag. it's nothin you wouldn't see in the games themselves tho.

Stilwater in the summer of 2011 was raging hot. It was humid, and stifling, and exhaustive. There was a heat wave, and they were all drowning in it.

When the Boss got out of the hospital, Johnny was waiting for them in the parking lot with his car's air conditioner on high. His eyes were closed and his glasses were tucked into his shirt pocket. Inside his car it was cool, even chilly, and he was planned on fuckin' staying put until he couldn't anymore.

The Boss was banging on his window.

He knew it was them without even opening his eyes. It was a familiar sound, one he had heard countless times from the selectively mute Player. He put his hand up to flip them off and the banging got louder.

"Johnny!" They yelled. "Let me in, you fucking prick, before I key your car."

He stretched his arm out and popped the lock. A gust of burning hot air accompanied them into the car and he groaned.

"Shut up," they said, chucking their hospital papers behind their seat, setting their bag at their feet, and balancing their flower vase between their thighs. They'd only been outside for a few minutes, but they were already covered in a film of sweat that made them stick uncomfortably to the leather seat. They wouldn't stop fidgeting, unsticking their thighs and pushing their hair out of their face, but continued on despite the discomfort, "I hate the fuckin' doctors in this city, Johnny-- I had to break this last one's fingers before he'd stop calling me _Sir._ The fuckin' audacity of it-- I mean, really, who in this city is ballsy enough to disrespect me like that? Apparently Doctor broken-fingers, that's fuckin’ who. Showed his ass. But the nurses! Christ, they kept trying to get me to stay put and sign up for retraining therapy or something like that and--"

"Boss," Johnny interrupted. He'd spent a year earnestly believing that they were mute. 5 years later, he had learned very fast that, given an environment where they could let their guard down, once they got talking _they never shut up_. Funny how things change.

They quieted, but didn't turn to face him like they usually would. He sat up, put his glasses back on, and gently smacked their shoulder with the back of his hand.

"C'mon, Boss, let's see the face."

They groaned, but turned so he could see them.

The stitches started on their right cheek, a bit underneath the cheekbone, ran across the flat bridge of their nose, and curved upwards towards their left eye. The cut disappeared behind a black medical eyepatch over what seemed to be a heap of bandaging, which obscured the state of their eye all together. The skin around the cut looked red and puffy, painfully stretched tight and glistening with recently applied disinfectant, but healing.

He let out a low noise of affirmation. "So the damn thing's really gone, huh? Whole eye cut out?"

"Scooped the remains of it out of my head like jelly."

"Gonna leave it hollow?"

"Thought about it, but I think I'll try the glass eye first. Could be fun to customize."

"You can customize a glass eye?"

"Shaundi said one of her exes did."

"Course she would know. You look good, Boss. You look alive."

They shrugged, a look on their face that said they knew to be grateful for that but didn't particularly care to be. "What about you?" they asked. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I am clearly fuckin' fantastic."

The Boss let out a low noise as they watched Johnny adjust his seat and grip the steering wheel. "Care to give me more info than that?"

"Enh, not really," he admitted, "but I will anyway. Still feel like shit, Boss-- Don't get me wrong, nothing's gonna hold me back from murderin' my days away, but--" a small sigh escaped him and he deflated just a bit. "Everything's feelin' a lot harder than it used to be, though."

The Boss leaned back in their seat, watching him speak with a careful glance. "That's the depression, Johnny."

"Well, shit, when does it go away?"

"I dunno," they admitted. They sat back to stare out the windshield. "Maybe never."

Johnny shifted in his seat and frowned. A great desire for things to be the same as they were before swelled up in his chest and threatened to drown him. It was a harsh wave of emotion that he quickly tried to repress. The ache for the days before the boat explosion blended into the default ache that had made permanent residence in his chest. "Surviving is a choice, huh?"

“Oh, christ, you were hanging out with án-má. You know, a therapist would probably be less intensive to spend time with.”

“Therapists don’t give free food. And they’re mandated to report crimes.”

“Then don’t talk about the crime bits.”

“My whole fuckin’ life is the crime bits.”

“You can _not_ use my grandmother as a therapist.”

He laughed a bit. “I wasn’t going to anyway.” He put the car in reverse and swung out of the parking spot, rolling out onto the street. “Did Pierce call you?”

“You know he did.”

“So we’ve got a name-- what are you gonna do with it?”

The Boss turned away from Johnny, staring out over the stretch of highway before them, glistening and wavering in the premature summer heat. “I’m feeling biblical,” they mused. “Eye for an eye.”

Johnny accepted that and took the next exit to begin the long cruise up from Ezpata to the Downtown District Apartments. The drive over was silent, mostly, with only the low hum of the radio between them. Johnny felt a dull sense akin to righteousness steeping in his chest as he drove, a festering infection brought on by everything that had been taken from him. If the Boss would hand him the matches, he would have gladly burned down the Ronin and listened to them scream from the flames. But this time around, it was not his battle. This was the Boss’s retribution, and we would deliver them. They'd done the same for him.

“Toshio Hirabayashi, apartment 305.” Johnny’s stiletto was parked across the street from the inconspicuous apartment building, and the Boss was staring up at the windows on the third floor. "Pierce said the Ronin were talking about what a "lucky bastard they are" to get to slice you open. You want me to join you?"

"No," they said, reaching up to tie back their hair. "I'll be fine. If something happens, I'll shoot out one of those windows."

Johnny nodded, pulling his pistol from his side and letting it rest in his lap. "I'll be right here when you need me, Boss."

They gripped his shoulder and squeezed, then reached behind his seat to borrow a small pistol and a large knife from Johnny's stash. They hooked both to their belt, and threw open the door. A hot gust of air rushed in, settled in the car, and left an unpleasant humidity that made Johnny sink a little lower in his seat. The car door slammed and the Boss walked away; Johnny thought about all the times they’d done things like this before and lamented his complete lack of excitement this time around.

Meanwhile, the Boss was breaking the lock on the front door. Already, a sweat was forming on their brow from the suffocating heat, and when the door finally swung open they found little relief in the sunlit entry hall. The white walls and tan wood flooring lead them down a path of monotony, the same brown door looping again and again with only a few small plaques differentiating them by number. It was cleaner and quieter than the apartment buildings they’d grown up in, but they’d learned to swallow the resentment that stirred in them when they saw the ways Stilwater was being changed.

On the third floor, they found themself face to face with a young man who's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of them. He froze, unarmed and unprepared, and stiffened as the Boss's vision locked onto his yellow shirt. A tense moment held between them, silence weighing down on their shoulders. They held each other's gaze, a predator to prey, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

The Ronin moved first. Maybe he realized he had no chance to begin with-- he couldn't hold off the Boss with his bare hands. He lunged for a door, threw his fist against the wood to make the loudest bang he could and yelled, "Toshio, run!"

The words barely passed his lips before the Boss had snatched the pistol from their belt and shot him in the shoulder. He cursed, collapsed back, and stumbled back onto his feet. Boss shot his opposite shoulder, stepped over him, and used the butt of the gun to smash the knob off the door. "There's nowhere for them to go," they said. They pressed the heel of their boot against his bleeding shoulder, and paused before digging down. He cried out, bit down, and gripped at their leg as he seethed. "It's cute that you care. Relax. I'm not even here to kill them."

The smashed their boot into the Ronin's face, broke his nose, and he groaned out, "you fucking prick," before the Boss brought their boot down again.

"Stay put, hotshot." They rolled their eyes and threw open the door. It was a small, simple apartment, with not much to it. It was clean, and quiet, and Toshio was standing with their back pressed against a bedroom door.

They were a rather average looking person, not someone the Boss would glance twice at on the street, if not for the intricate tattoos twisting from the base of their neck to the tops of their ankles. It appeared as though Boss had caught them during a domestic moment: they were wearing a plain tank and jeans rolled up to their knees, black hair pulled up in a messy ponytail.

"Hi, Toshio," they greeted, kicking the door closed behind them. "You know, we shared such an intimate moment together, and then you go and hide from me? Kinda rude."

"Please leave," they breathed, almost trembling. "I'll fight you any time, anywhere, but not here, not now--"

"Too bad," they interrupted. "You think you can carve someone's face up and then ask them to reschedule? The fuck kinda banger are you?"

"I wasn't trying to carve your face up." They took a tentative move towards a bookcase, slowly reaching upwards. "I was trying to take your whole fucking head."

Toshio leapt for a gun on the bookshelf, a desperate move, and got their hand smashed into the shelf by the Boss's kick in the process.

"Asshole!" they seethed, reeling back, clutching at their newly broken fingers.

The Boss tilted their head and watched them break out in clammy, adrenaline-induced sweat. They grabbed Toshio by the collar of their tank, threw them onto the ground, and then sat down on their stomach. "Start screaming. Your friend out front is unconscious, and no one in Stilwater listens anymore." They pulled the knife from their belt, turned it over in their hand, and hummed. "Looks more fun than a samurai sword, huh? More versatile." Toshio spit at their face. It landed on their cheek, right under the stitches; they feigned a gasp and wiped it off with the back of their hand. "You just aren't very nice, are you?"

"If you're gonna kill me, then do it." Toshio squeezed their eyes shut, and tears spilled out from the corners. Their lips trembled and quivered, pulled back into a miserable grimace. "Fuck," they breathed.

The Boss's eyebrows quirked up just a bit. They spun the knife in their hand. "You're scared to die, Toshio?"

"No."

"Yes, you are. I can see it." They pressed the tip of their knife to Toshio's forehead, an inch above their left eyebrow, and watched them wince as they drew blood. "You're in luck. I'm not gonna kill you. I'm just here to teach a lesson."

"Please," Toshio sobbed, quiet and desperate. "My sons are in the next room."

Their breath left their body. They hesitated. They craned their neck to the door Toshio had been guarding. It was silent. They stared back down at them. "I don't hear any fuckin’ kids."

"They're three!" Toshio gasped, forcing back tears. "They're taking a fucking nap!"

The Boss swallowed, disturbed by memories of a 10-year-old in Chinatown watching their mother get shot. “They haven’t woken up yet? But they’ll hear you scream,” they admitted. “Soundproofing in the hall might be great, but in here-- they’ll wake up.” For a moment, they just sat with the knife posed and ready, running over options in their head.

Toshio watched them with a burning plea for mercy in their eyes. Their lips parted, and then closed, teetering between a stubborn facade of strength and an instinct to beg. Tears kept spilling from their eyes and turning their skin red and puffy. The Boss kept twirling their knife, thinking, before they stood, grabbed Toshio by the collar, and dragged them out of the apartment.

“Kaede--” Toshio gasped as they were dragged over the other Ronin’s unconscious body. They reached for him, and the Boss snatched them away.

“He’s fine,” they said as stepped through the pool of Kaede’s seeping blood and continued to drag Toshio down the hall. They dragged them all the way to the ground floor, the front door, out onto the street and across to the parking structure. As they approached, Johnny stepped out of his car.

Boss whistled. “Gat, there’s another Ronin laid out in the hallway, in front of the apartment. Can you go get him? You can just leave him on the front porch or somethin’ but I want him out of there.”

Johnny nodded but glanced between the Boss and Toshio. “The fuck you doin’?”

“Change of plans. They’ve got kids up in this bitch.”

“Oh, shit,” Johnny said, “that’s fucked up.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

Xavier threw Toshio on the pavement, watching them wince and scramble as their bare skin touched the burning pavement. “Oh, is this worse? Good.” They pressed their boot to their chest, forcing them back down. “Listen, man, I’m protecting your kids. I’ll even make sure they’re okay while you’re in the hospital-- I have _some_ ethics. But I don’t give a fuck about you. You’re just some prick that got a little too close.”

Toshio swallowed, tried to relax their twitching muscles, and leaned back on the gravel. Their face stiffened even as more tears leaked down their face, a final attempt at dignity in the face of a nightmare. The Boss leaned over them, watching them without forgiveness, and they gave a slow, pained nod of their head. “Thank you,” they choked out. “Thank you for sparing my sons.”

The rough palm of the Boss’s hand met their blazing cheek, a shockingly gentle touch that turned their face up. “So stoic,” they remarked, pressing the tip of the knife to their still-bleeding forehead. “Shame you chose the wrong side-- that's all it takes, really, to end up like this.”

Summer afternoons in Stilwater were always noisy. People lined the streets, filled out the stores and the boardwalk and the playgrounds. The Downtown district was clean and bright, decorated and appealing, but it was still Stilwater.

The gunshots didn't shake anyone up. They moved further away, drifted from the apartment, a purposeful choice made to avoid someone else’s misery. As long as it wasn’t happening to them, why should they take the risk of getting involved? When Toshio cried, when they screamed, when their throat turned raw from the inconsolable pain, no one came to their rescue. There was only the Boss, their hand pressed to their cheek, and the knife splitting down the left side of their face.

Johnny and Boss drove away as the ambulance sirens just barely became audible. Toshio and Kaede lay flat on the pavement, side by side, one unconscious, and one shaking and crying and staring up at the sky with only one remaining eye.

In the apartment building opposite them, two twin boys slept soundly, blissfully unaware that their parent was not there. In a couple of hours, their aunt would arrive to watch over them, a diligent saint would see her arrive, and he would text the Boss to let them know the kids were taken care of. That would be in a few hours, though, and right now the Boss was casually wiping the blood off their hands in the passenger seat of Johnny’s car.

“Are you sure about letting them live, Boss?” Johnny was not usually one to question the Boss, but this revenge seemed almost tame for them and it struck what little curiosity he had left.

“Positive,” they said. “They won’t come back.” They leaned back into the seat, turning to stare out the window. “They didn’t even really fight back, Johnny. They just accepted their fate as soon as I broke their hand. They’re not in the Ronin ‘cause they care-- I’d guess they’re in it ‘cause it was a survival ticket.”

Johnny made a small noise of surprise. “Well, hell, isn’t that why most people join?”

“Do I look like a fuckin’ sociologist to you? I dunno, maybe. But it isn’t supposed to stay that way.”

Johnny shrugged. “Keep a gun on you, playa.”

“You know I do.”

A few weeks later, the Boss passed a familiar face on the street. Toshio glanced up to them, swallowed thickly, but did not change expression, and the Boss glanced over their matching set of stitches. Two young boys clung to Toshio’s hands, one on either side.

“Not wearing yellow anymore, huh?”

Toshio did not respond at first, tension radiating off their body as the Boss paused next to them.

“No,” they finally said. “Kaede and I got out of the game.”

The Boss smiled, but it was not kind. “For them?” they tilted their heads towards the children, both of which were staring up at them with curious eyes, the way they might look at any odd stranger.

“For them.” They were trying to hold steady, Boss could tell, but their voice trembled with an unspeakable hatred for their presence. Finally, Toshio turned to face them, and they had a very similar medical eyepatch on their face. “But I kept my guns.”

They grinned wider, the way a snake might put their fangs on display for a pest that wandered too close. “Good call.” They maneuvered around Toshio, stepping behind them, and continued on their way with only a call over their shoulder, “Stilwater’s a dangerous place, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: toshio is actually a rebranding of xavier's very first concept design. They were originally supposed to be a 5'6", trans masc, lithe biker type, but that somehow shifted into a 7'2", trans feminine, brawny biker type. i thought it would be neat to take their original design and turn it into their sort of "anti-self" that is responsible for one of their most distinctive physical traits: their big ole face scar!  
> i've also decided i'm only gonna do one more chapter after this; i think it's coming to its natural end. I hope u have all enjoyed........ <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's over, and there's no reason to cry.

Purgatory was rather quiet that afternoon, with many Saints simply loitering about with no real direction. The radio on the bar counter was tuned into The Mix, and  _ Sister Christian  _ was crackling out into the still air. Every few seconds, the loud pop of a Kobra pistol would disrupt the relaxed silence, immediately followed by either the shattering of a bottle or the frustrated cursing of the Boss. 

They let out a deep breath, shifted their aim, and shot again. The bullet scraped the side of the bottle, knocking it over, but it didn't  _ actually  _ hit. They swore again. 

Johnny stood behind them and watched. "Try two hands." 

"I never shoot with two hands." 

"You're gonna shoot with two hands today." Johnny grabbed their left hand and slapped it to the handle of the gun, gripping their hands so they closed them around the handle. He stretched up to peer over their shoulder and pressed his chest into their back. He tried to match the angle of their vision, but it was difficult with the Boss’s ridiculous height. "Remember when you first learned to shoot? You start with two hands, then you get good, then you use one." 

The Boss groaned, tried to relax, and let Johnny guide their aim. 

"There," he said, and they fired. They hit the bottle dead center, and the Boss's frustration eased by a fraction. Johnny released them, walked over to the bar, and put a new bottle in the exact same spot. "See where the gun is? Quit aiming like you have two eyes. Compensate." He stepped away, and the Boss fired. The bottle shattered. 

They nodded, aimed for a different bottle, and shot again. It wasn't dead center, but it hit. 

"Not bad, huh?" 

They dropped their gun, sighed, and nodded their head. "Thanks, Johnny." 

He moved back to their side, prepared to guide their aim if they needed it. "No problem. Shit reminds me of when you were a kid-- just firing at anything that moved and hopin' something landed." 

They scoffed, pushed back against his shoulder, and aimed again. They shot another bottle. It missed. They readjusted, fired again, and it hit. 

Johnny watched as they popped out the empty clip and replaced it with a new one. "How long you gonna keep practicing today?" 

"I dunno, I guess until I have something else to do. I might just go melee for a while-- start hacking motherfuckers to death with a big machete." 

"Damn, you gonna start wearing green, too?" 

Their face twisted. "Can you imagine if the Saints wore green? Shit'd be ugly-- I don't have the undertones for green." 

"The fuck is an  _ undertone _ ?" 

They blinked. "Undertone, Johnny. The tones in your skin." 

"You mean like your skin color?" 

"Kinda?" 

A new voice broke in. "Undertone is the color underneath-- like, a subdued quality that affects the color of your skin. You can have the same skin color as someone else, but different undertones." Pierce had appeared next to them, toting a K6 Krukov and a splattering of blood on his cheek. “There’s, uh, three categories: warm, cool, and neutral. Boss is peachy.”

“ _ Peachy _ ?” 

“Peachy! It’s a kind of warm undertone.”  

“What the fuck?” Johnny threw up a hand, almost dismissing the idea. “How do you know this shit?” 

“It’s basic make-up stuff, Gat,” the Boss shrugged. “I’m peachy.” 

“ _ And  _ clothing stuff. If you know your undertones you know what colors to wear.” 

“I  _ do  _ know what color to wear: fuckin’ purple.” 

Pierce waved him off, setting his rifle down on the bar. “Quit bein’ such a hardass.” 

The Boss reached out and wiped a bit of blood off Pierce’s face. “You get shot?” 

“Nah, that’s Ronin blood. I went out to see what the talk on the streets was and some motherfuckers got rude. I had to retort.” 

“Find anything good?” Johnny reached under the bar, pulling up a full bottle of vodka. He grabbed a couple of shot glasses and started to pour. 

“Only what we already suspected. They aren’t pulling any counter moves-- looks like your friend Toshio really did just drop out of the game, and no one else cares enough to risk avenging them. We should keep an eye on the strongholds anyway, though.” 

The Boss hummed, took a glass from Johnny, and knocked back their shot. “Sounds good,” they sighed, slamming the glass back on the bar. They swung around and shot another bottle off the bar. They bobbed their head in approval as it shattered, twirled their kobra in their hand, and holstered it. “I’ve still fuckin’ got it.” 

“Still gonna have to learn to drive again,” Pierce pointed out, before taking his vodka. 

Johnny snorted. “You say that like they ever learned to drive a first time.” 

“Shut up!” the Boss spat. “I know how to drive!” 

Pierce and Johnny laughed. “Supposedly.” 

The Boss shook their head, glaring at both of them as they sat down next to Johnny. “Pricks. I run stuff over on purpose. It’s a conscious choice.” 

Pierce gave a small scoff of a laugh. “Yeah, that doesn’t make the motherfucker in the passenger seat feel any better.” 

“Well, when one of you can outrace me, I’ll take fuckin’ criticism on my driving.” 

Johnny poured them another shot of vodka and drank his own. “New topic: what are we doing next?” 

The Boss took their shot, leaned forward, and considered it. “Same thing we do every day-- take over the rest of the city.” 

Pierce snorted. “Damn, alright, Brain. Any other novel ideas?” 

The Boss flipped him off, but stifled a laugh. “Shut up, Pinky.” 

Johnny stood up and pushed himself off the bar, stretching. "Tonight, though." 

"I dunno about tonight." the Boss swung around and leaned against the bar. “I didn’t have any plans.” 

Pierce reached out to shove their shoulder, almost jostling them off their seat. “You owe me dinner, actually-- my plan worked.” 

“Ohhh,” Johnny said, raising his eyebrows. “We’re at that stage of “just fuckbuddies” now?” 

A mischievous grin split his face as his remark garnered the warning glares of both Pierce and the Boss; he laughed as they both stood to purposefully shove him on their way past, heading for the exit. 

“C’mon,” the Boss chided, “Call Shaundi and tell her to meet us up top. We'll hit up the barrio for some food." 

They filed out, relaxed and content, until Johnny put his hand on the Boss’s shoulder and stopped them at the base of the stairs. All three of them stopped, but the look on Johnny’s face told the Boss to wave Pierce on ahead and leave them standing in the relative quiet of the limbo between Purgatory and the mission house. 

“Your face,” Johnny said. “How’s it healing.” 

The Boss tensed, glanced away. “Quit babying me, Johnny, I’m not a fuckin’ kid.” 

“Yeah, right, you’re a big bad 23-year-old now, totally grown up,” he snorted. “You think I’m askin’ just cause you’re younger than me? That hurts.” Despite the Boss’s defensiveness, he reached out with a careful hand to turn their face so he could look over the scar from right to left. “You look like shit.” 

They let out a noise from deep in their throat, something between a growl and a scoff. “Dick. It’s healing fine. Not infected. Just hurts.” They pulled away the bandage just enough to reveal their eye; it was stitched shut along the length of the lid and then again crossing up and over it, piecing it back together along the sword’s path. It was, essentially, split into four equal pieces.

“Looks sexy,” Johnny said, letting out a sigh. “How are you handling your new life as a cyclops?” 

They pulled the bandaging back down over their eye and gave Johnny a gracious dosing of two middle fingers, but shrugged their shoulders and answered him anyway. “It’s-- It’s hard. Harder than the nurses said it would be. I mean, shit, I already needed glasses, but now I can’t even wear them ‘cause they sit on the stitches on my nose-- so I’ve just been wearing one contact lense? And like, I keep knocking shit over. Constantly. And bumping into people. I keep looking over my left shoulder and forgetting that whole field of vision is fucked. It just-- it really does feel like something is missing, and I keep forgetting it’s missing, and I have to work my ass off to make my brain compensate for it.” 

Johnny listened, nodded, and tried to think of something to say. “Well, shit, you’ll get there eventually. Until then, just keep us around.” 

“Thanks, Johnny.” They rolled their shoulders, their face lined with exhaustion and a general discontent. Even split in half and obscured by gauze, he could still see their thoughts in their expression. 

At least that would never change. 

He gripped their hand and pulled them forward, an imitation of a hug that was really more of a handshake. They leaned into it with him, a weak smile trying to tug at their lips. “Man, fuck your macho bullshit,” they laughed, and before Johnny could respond, the Boss had him in an  _ actual  _ hug-- the kind where they wrapped their arms around his waist and squeezed him in tight, their face resting on his shoulder, and pressing his chest to theirs. The Boss was very tall, a full foot and one inch taller than the 6’1” man in their arms, and their heeled boots weren’t helping. Johnny’s face was in their collar, smashing his glasses into his face and burying his nose into their shirt. Their perfume smelled like peonies, something he hadn’t noticed before, but explained how Pierce had known their favorite flower all those weeks ago.

Johnny normally was pretty averse to overt displays of affection; it was something he’d had to learn to get over with Aisha and a wall he hadn’t ever bothered to bring down with even his closest friend. He’d certainly held and been held by the Boss before, but it was usually when one of them got shot or otherwise horribly wounded and needed to be carried. The Boss had never reached out to him before, simply held him for the sake of being held. Even as the Playa, there was always a justification to whatever intimacy they shared. Even a few minutes ago, he recognized that he’d had his chest pressed to their back and his arms looped around theirs, but it had been with the reason of helping them shoot. There was no excuse for them holding him like this other than that they wanted to. He knew that he would usually reject something like this, push them away and be rude about their softness. Normally, he would recoil away from such a gentle thing in general, such an act of domesticity and human need performed out in the empty open like this. 

But it was the Boss, and they were his best friend, and they both knew the other was in pain. 

He reached up and wrapped his arms around their neck. He would never get used to being so much shorter than them, but it was nice to be able to tug them down and carefully crush them in his grip.

They were warm, and encompassing, and with their broad hands pressed flat against his back, he felt a comfort that he hadn’t in a very long time. It was almost too much, remembering suddenly how much the Boss meant to him and how much he meant to them, but to have all of that feeling contained in a simple gesture. 

It must have only been a minute that he stood relaxed into the Boss’s embrace, only a minute of vulnerability, but it felt strangely infinite. It felt like his entire world was being collapsed and rebuilt in the matter of a few seconds, forcing him to accept how constantly things change and stay the same all at once. The Boss pulled away, and everything was as it had been before. He felt something akin to tenderness, like the Boss had split him open with a knife and stitched him back up again. They were looking at him, watching his face, and their deep voice mumbled, “You’re my best friend, Johnny. Always have been.” 

Johnny blinked at them and remembered how they got that big cut on their face. He didn’t mean to, but the thought about how he’d cradled them in his arms, lifted them out of the dirt and pressed his overshirt into their wound. All his attention had been on protecting them, his body overrun with a catalyzing fear of losing them, too. 

“Hey, you’re mine, too. But we knew that.” They smiled at him, and he added, “Promise me you won’t make a habit out of getting cut up like this.” 

They snorted and shook their head. “It’s not on my to-do list.” 

The Boss hated being saved. He knew that. They hated needing help. Johnny was the person they trusted most in the world, and when their face split open was the first time he’d seen them cry. It didn’t stop him from caring, though, even if he wouldn’t say it so blatantly. 

“If you need help, you call me, okay?” 

“Same to you, man.” 

"Promise you won't be a pussy about this." 

"Whatchu mean?" 

"Don't try and refuse help when you need it, pussy." 

They laughed. "Man, fuck you, you're such a damn hypocrite," they said, but they were still smiling. "I won't be a pussy if you won't be a pussy." 

"Deal. Dicks abound."

They laughed again and slung an arm around his shoulders as they headed up the stairs. "That's right, man-- just two motherfuckers with massive cocks." 

In the parking lot, Pierce was hanging up on Shaundi. He was leaning against the hood of the Boss’s sleek old bootlegger, offering Johnny and Boss an intrigued glance as they exited the old mission doors. 

“All good?” He asked with an air of restrained curiosity. 

“Fuckin’ golden,” Johnny replied, reaching out to clasp his hand in affirmation. 

Pierce nodded and accepted both answer and handshake, though it was obvious that he wanted to know more about the hold up he had been excluded from. Instead, he stuffed his phone back in the pocket of his jeans and sighed. “Shaundi’ll be by soon.” 

It was evening, almost sundown, but the blacktop still sizzled and blazed under their feet and the air still left a cloud of humidity that clung to their skin. The Boss reached into their car and turned the key so they could play the radio. A Chrisette Michele song crackled into life through their boosted speakers, bleeding a smooth tune into the still air. They joined Pierce against the hood of the car, reclined, and watched the orange-tinged light paint the city over. Johnny stood at their other side, framing them with the two men they trusted most in this world. 

The sting of vulnerability lingered in their chest and kept them aware of the obstacles before them, but with their lieutenants by them they felt at peace. It wasn’t the knowledge that they would be helped throughout their adjustment period that gave them peace, but just the fact that they were there. 

In the Red Light Crib their bouquet of peonies had sat gentle and pink on the computer desk. They were starting to wilt away no matter how hard the Boss tried to prolong their life, so they had bought a book with the sole intent of pressing the flowers between the pages. Their rough, jagged hands had almost torn some of the petals from their buds, and it had upset them, but they had managed to preserve most of the bouquet. Every day that another flower wilted, they plucked it from the vase and pressed it into the book. It made them feel very human, and very loved, which were curious sensations. 

They would never say it aloud, but they loved their lieutenants. They loved them deeply. Shaundi was the sister they’d wished for as a lonely child; Johnny was a friend they felt they might share a soul with; Pierce was something to them they hadn’t quite figured out yet. Carlos had been someone they might have been able to love, if they’d been faster. They hated the vulnerability inherent in the time they had to take to recover, because they loved their lieutenants and wanted to protect them. They didn’t want to be saved, but being on the receiving end of care was a side effect of loving something that loved you back. Even this simple moment, reclining on the hood of their car in the setting sun with Johnny and Pierce by their side and Shaundi approaching in her old van, was an act of healing. 

They smiled as she parked and hopped out, making her way towards them like it was any other day. She grinned at them, lazy and unassuming, and Boss realized all the acts of care and trust that had been compacted into the past few weeks. 

Maybe in all the anger and violence and plotting they’d missed it while it was happening, but all this misery had been wrapped up in acts of service. Johnny lifting them out of the underground, his shirt their bandage, and holding them still on the drive there was an act born of love. Shaundi visiting them their first day alone in the hospital with a gift and conversation was an act born of love. Pierce bringing them their beloved cat, not even knowing how feverent and miserable they were growing to be in that fucking hospital room, was an act of love, and giving him the truth of their middle name and their uncle’s presence when they knew they could have lied was an act of absolute trust. None of them benefitted from any of those things; none of them gained anything tangible from being there for them. For hell’s sake, Johnny was suffering through a tragedy that held all the potential to completely shatter him, but he hadn’t even hesitated to throw himself to the ground and protect them when they needed him. 

Love was not something they took lightly or registered easily. Love was not something a gangster could take for granted or safely display. To love and be loved was an exceedingly dangerous act. They were terrible, violent, murderous people, and yet they loved. Their love was not conventional, or even immediately visible to an outsider’s eyes, but it was present anyhow. 

Shaundi was at their front and they allowed her a brief half-embrace, no different than they normally did, even as their heart was suddenly overflowing. 

Something had shifted within them. For a moment they felt like Hsin-hung, not the Boss. The people around them felt like Johnny and Pierce and Shaundi, not lieutenants. 

They were people, they suddenly remembered. They’d told Pierce that, but wondered if they’d believed it or even understood it. At the end of the day, they were all just people. 

Shaundi, Johnny, and Pierce piled into Hsin-hung’s cramped bootlegger and they drove their family out to dinner. Life wasn’t good, but together it was bearable. Together they would be okay. 

In the Red Light Crib, an unimportant book sat with a pink peony pressed between each page, and each petal was imbued with the love of someone who had thought they weren’t capable of such a thing anymore. 

Funny how things change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. ok . o k. ok. it's 3:20 am. i'm glad i finally finished this. thank u to everoyne who read it and stuck w me learning how to write again. i can only hope this is a good ending and i didnt get too sappy w it ( i kept listening to the following songs on loop for a few hours at a time: sound of silence, acoustic rendition of take on me, nothing's gonna hurt you baby, my beloved monster, and untitled (how does it feel) while INCREIDBLY sleep deprived and i think that showed up in my writing.) but i'm proud of this piece. it's a good new start i think. i pushed myself to write outside of my comfort zone, and to actually post it. yeehaw. if yr reading this? i lov u. yes! u.


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